Yf 


THE  famous  translator  of  Maeterlinck, 
Fabre,  Couperus,  Ewald  and  many  an- 
other, died  suddenly  at  the  end  of  1921. 
In  this  biographical  and  critical  sketch,  Mr. 
Stephen  McKenna,  who  was  his  most  inti- 
mate friend  during  the  last  chapter  of  his 
life,  pays  a  tribute  to  his  subject's  double 
genius  for  scholarship  and  friendship.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  Teixeira  himself  could 
have  said  offhand  how  many  dozen  volumes 
or  how  many  million  words  he  had  trans- 
lated ;  but  the  quantity  is  of  less  importance 
than  the  quality.  His  versions  read  like  orig- 
inals, and  originals  of  the  highest  literary 
order  at  that. 

Among  his  friends  and  acquaintances  were 
numbered  Oscar  and  Willie  Wilde,  Max 
Beerbohm,  Bernard  Shaw,  George  Moore, 
John  Gray,  Ernest  Dowson  and  Alfred  Sutro, 
to  the  last  of  whom  this  book  is  dedicated. 
An  indefatigable  worker,  an  accomplished 
wit,  an  enchanting  companion,  a  whimsical 
acquaintance  and  a  devoted  friend,  Teixeira 
paints  his  own  portrait  and  delineates  his 
own  character  in  the  many  letters  which  he 
exchanged  with  his  friend. 


p^ 


BY  ^^ 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 


TEX 


/ 


a-r^^tCct    /€^ 


^  /Vo^ 


TEX 


A  CHAPTER  IN  THE  LIFE 
OF 


ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


BY 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPTEIGHT,  1922, 

By  DODD,  mead  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 

FEINTED    IN    U.    S.    A. 


•    »   '- 


VAIL-BALLOU    COMPANV 

BINGHAMTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


a 


ID 
O. 


PR 


To 

g  ALFRED  SUTRO 

^,  I  dedicate  to  you   this  slight  tribute  to  the  memory  of 

^  our  friend.     You   were  the   luckier,   in   knowing  him  the 

longer.     I    shall    be    more    than    content    if    you    find,    in 

reading    this    book,    as    I    found    in    reading    his    letters 

<rj  again,  that  he  has  returned  to  us  even  for  a  moment  and 

5^  that  a  whim  of  his  language  or  an  echo  of  his  laughter 

has  recreated  the  triple  alliance  which  he  founded. 


2'' 


9583 


I  trust  also  you  may  be  long  without  finding  out  the 
devil  that  there  is  in  a  bereavement.  After  love  it  is 
the  one  great  surprise  that  life  preserves  for  us.  Now 
I  don't  think  I  'can  be  astonished  any  more. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson:    Letters. 


TEX 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 


''A  great  translator,"  one  friend  wrote  of 
Teixeira,  *'is  far  more  rare  than  a  great 
author." 

Judged  by  the  quality  and  volume  of  his 
work,  by  the  range  of  foreign  languages  from 
which  he  translated  and  by  the  perfection 
of  the  English  in  which  he  rendered  them, 
Teixeira  was  incontestably  the  greatest  trans- 
lator of  his  time.  Throughout  Great  Britain 
and  the  United  States  his  name  has  long  been 
held  in  honour  by  all  who  have  watched, 
cheering,  as  the  literature  of  France  and 
Belgium,  of  Germany  and  the  Netherlands, 
of  Denmark  and  Norway  strode  along  the 
broad  viaduct  which  his  labours  had,  in 
great  part,  established. 

Of  the  man,  apart  from  his  name,  little  has 
been  made  public.  His  love  of  laughing  at 
himself  might  prompt  him  to  say:     "When 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

you  write  my  Life  and  Letters  ...■";  but 
his  modesty  and  his  humour  would  have  been 
perturbed  in  equal  measure  by  the  vision  of 
a  solemn  biography  and  a  low-voiced  press. 
"I  was  a  little  bit  underpraised  before,"  he 
once  confessed;  "I'm  being  a  little  bit  over- 
praised now."  Since  the  best  of  himself 
went  impartially  into  all  that  he  wrote,  his 
conscience  could  never  be  haunted  by  the 
recollection  of  shoddy  workmanship,  even  in 
the  days  before  he  had  a  reputation  to  jeo- 
pardize; nor,  when  he  had  won  recognition, 
could  his  head  be  turned  by  the  announcement 
that  he  had  created  a  masterpiece.  If  he 
enjoyed  the  consciousness  of  having  filled 
the  English  treasury  with  the  literary  spoils 
of  six  countries,  he  dissembled  his  enjoyment. 
In  so  far  as  he  wished  to  be  remembered  at  all, 
it  was  not  as  a  man  of  letters,  but  as  a  friend, 
a  connoisseur  of  life,  a  man  of  sympathy  un- 
aging  and  zest  unstaled,  a  lover  of  simple 
jests,  a  laughing  philosopher.  Of  their  char- 
ity, he  wished  those  who  loved  him  to  have 
masses  said  for  the  repose  of  his  soul;  he 
w^ould  have  been  tortured  by  the  thought  that, 
in  life  or  death,  he  had  brought  unhappiness 

2 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

to  any  one  or  that,  dead  or  living,  he  had 
prompted  any  one  to  discuss  him  with  pom- 
posity. "Are  you  not  being  a  little  solemn?" 
was  a  question  that  alternated  with  the  advice : 
"Cultivate  a  pococurantist  attitude  to  life." 

"If  there  had  been  no  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," said  another  friend,  "it  would  have 
been  necessary  for  Tex  to  create  her." 

Those  who  knew  the  translator  of  Fabre 
and  Ewald,  of  Maeterlinck  and  Couperus 
only  by  his  awe-inspiring  name  must  detect  in 
this  a  hint  that  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 
had  a  lighter  side  to  his  nature;  the  suspicion 
can  best  be  established  or  laid  by  the  evidence 
of  his  own  letters. 

The  present  volume  is  an  attempt  to  sketch 
the  man  in  outline  for  those  readers  who  have 
recognized  his  talent  in  scholarship  without 
guessing  his  genius  for  friendship.  "The 
apostles  are  not  all  dead,"  he  wrote,  in  criti- 
cism of  the  legends  that  were  growing  up 
around  the  men  of  the  nineties;  "many  of 
them  are  your  living  contemporaries;  you 
could,  if  you  like,  receive  at  first  hand  their 
memories  of  their  dead  fellows."  ...  It  is 
the   purpose   of   this    sketch   to   present  one 

3 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

'apostle'  as  he  revealed  himself  to  one  of  his 
disciples.  A  biography  and  bibliography 
will  be  found  in  the  appropriate  works  of  ref- 
erence. Only  a  single  chapter  has  been  at- 
tempted here;  of  those  who  knew  him  during 
the  nineties,  which  he  loved  so  well  and  of 
which  he  preserved  the  tradition  so  faithfully, 
perhaps  one  will  write  that  earlier  chapter 
and  describe  Teixeira  in  the  position  which 
he  took  up  on  their  outskirts.  And  one  better 
qualified  than  the  present  writer  should  paint 
this  sphinx  of  the  bridge-table,  with  his  per- 
versity of  declaration  and  his  brilliance  of 
play.  "You  have  made  your  contract,"  ad- 
mitted a  friend  who  was  partnering  him  for 
the  first  time;  "but  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  but  why 
that  declaration?"  "I  wanted  to  see  your  ex- 
pression," answered  Teixeira  with  the  com- 
placency of  a  man  who  did  not  greatly  mind 
whether  he  won  or  lost,  but  abominated  a  dulL 
game.  Those  who  knew  him  all  his  life  may 
feel,  with  the  writer,  that  the  last  half-dozen 
years  constitute,  naturally  and  dramatically,  a 
chapter  by  themselves.  They  are  the  period 
of  his  literary  recognition  and,  unhappily,  of 
his  physical  decline;  of  his  emergence  from 

4 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

seclusion;  of  his  first  public  services  and  his 
last  private  friendships. 

By  1914  Teixeira  stood  in  the  forefront  of 
English  translators;  and,  through  his  labours, 
translation  had  won  a  place  in  the  fore- 
front of  English  literature.  Almost  sim- 
ultaneously with  the  outbreak  of  war,  he  was 
attacked  by  the  heart-afifection  that  ultimately 
killed  him;  and  the  record  of  this  period  is 
the  record  of  an  invalid.  Ill-health  notwith- 
standing, he  offered  his  energy  and  ability  to 
the  country  of  his  adoption;  and,  in  an  emer- 
gency war-department  largely  stafifed  by  men 
of  letters,  the  most  retiring  of  them  all  be- 
came enmeshed  in  the  machinery  of  govern- 
ment. From  his  marriage  until  the  war, 
Teixeira  had  lived  an  almost  monastic  life, 
only  relaxing  his  rule  of  solitary  work  in 
favour  of  the  bridge-table.  Once  set  in  the 
midst  of  appreciative  friends,  this  sham  re- 
cluse found  himself  entertaining  and  being 
entertained,  joining  new  clubs,  indulging  his 
old  inscrutable  sociability  and  almost  over- 
coming his  former  shyness. 

For  three-and-a-half  out  of  these  last  seven 
years,   one   of  Teixeira's   colleagues  worked 

5 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

with  him  almost  daily  at  the  same  table  in  the 
same  room  of  the  same  department.  The  rare 
separations  due  to  leave  or  illness  were  coun- 
tered by  an  almost  daily  correspondence,  con- 
ducted in  the  spirit  of  an  intimate  and  elabor- 
ate game;  and,  when  the  work  of  the  depart- 
ment ended,  the  letters— sometimes  inter- 
rupted by  a  diary  or  suspended  for  a  meeting 
— kept  the  intimacy  unbroken. 

So  written,  they  are  as  personal,  as  discur- 
sive and — to  a  stranger — as  full  of  allusion  as 
the  long-sustained  conversation  of  two  friends. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that,  in  their  present  form, 
they  are  at  least  not  obscure;  of  these,  and  of 
all,  letters  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
writer  was  not  counting  his  words  for  a  tele- 
gram nor  selecting  his  subjects  for  later  pub- 
lication. 

From  his  half  of  the  correspondence — in 
a  life  untouched  by  drama — Teixeira's  per- 
sonality may  be  left  to  reconstruct  itself. 
Not  every  side  of  his  character  is  revealed, 
for  an  interchange  conducted  primarily  as  a 
game  afforded  him  few  opportunities  of  ex- 
hibiting his  serene  philosophy  and  meditative 
bent.     The  absence  of  all  calculation   from 

6 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

his  mind — a  part  of  his  refusal  to  grow  up — 
may,  for  want  of  counter-availing  ballast,  be 
interpreted  as  flippancy.  And,  as  the  man 
was  greater  than  the  word  he  wrote  and  the 
word  he  translated,  his  letters  have  to  be  sup- 
plied by  imagination  with  some  of  the  radi- 
ance which  he  shed  over  preposterous  story 
and  trivial  jest.  Charm,  which  is  so  hard 
to  analyse  in  the  living,  is  yet  harder  to 
recapture  from  the  dead;  but,  if  the  record 
of  a  single  friendship  can  suggest  loyalty, 
courage,  generosity  and  tenderness,  if  a 
whimsical  turn  of  phrase  can  indicate 
humour,  patience  and  an  infinite  capacity  for 
providing  and  receiving  enjoyment,  Teixeira's 
letters  will  preserve,  for  those  who  did  not 
know  him,  the  fragrance  of  spirit  recognized 
and  remembered  by  all  who  did. 


II 

In  the  autumn  of  1914  a  censorship  de- 
partment was  improvised  in  the  office  of  the 
National  Service  League.  A  press-gang  of 
two,  working  the  clubs  of  London  and  the 
colleges  of  Oxford,  established  the  nucleus  of 
a  stafif;  and  the  first  recruits  were  given,  as 
their  earliest  duty,  the  task  of  bringing  in 
more  recruits.  As  the  department  had  been 
formed  to  examine  the  commercial  corres- 
pondence of  neutrals  and  enemies,  the  first 
qualification  of  a  candidate  was  a  knowledge 
of  languages;  and,  in  the  preliminary  search 
for  recruits,  Alfred  Sutro  convinced  the  friend 
who  had  succeeded  him  in  translating  Maet- 
erlinck that  a  man  who  was  equally  at  home 
in  English,  French,  German,  Flemish,  Dutch 
and  Danish,  with  a  smattering  of  ecclesiastical 
Latin,  was  too  valuable  to  be  spared.  Teix- 
eira  joined  the  growing  brotherhood  of  law- 
yers, dons  and  business  men  in  Palace  Street, 
Westminster,  advising  on  intercepted  letters 
and  cables,  curtailing  the  activities  of  traders 

8 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

in  contraband,  assimilating  the  procedure  of 
a  government  department  and  being  paid 
stealthily  each  week,  like  a  member  of  some 
criminal  association,  with  a  furtive  bundle  of 
notes. 

It  was  his  first  experience  of  the  public  serv- 
ice, almost  his  only  taste  of  responsibility; 
and  it  marked  the  end  of  the  cloistered  life. 
Though  he  brought  to  his  new  work  a  varied 
knowledge  of  affairs,  Teixeira  had  partici- 
pated but  little  in  them  since  his  marriage  in 
1900.  The  friends  of  his  youth,  when  he  was 
living  in  the  Temple, — John  Gray  and  Ernest 
Dowson,  William  Wilde  (whose  widow  he 
married)  and  William  Campbell, — such 
acquaintances  as  Oscar  Wilde  and  Max 
Beerbohm,  Robert  Ross  and  Bernard  Shaw, 
Leonard  Smithers  and  Frank  Harris,  were 
for  the  most  part  scattered  or  dead;  and, 
though  he  kept  touch  with  J.  T.  Grein,  Edgar 
Jepson,  Alfred  Sutro  and  a  few  more,  he 
seemed  at  this  time,  after  Campbell's  death, 
to  lack  opportunity  and  inclination  for  mak- 
ing new  friends. 

His  gregarious  years,  and  the  varied  ex- 
perience which  they  brought,  belonged  to  an 

9 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

earlier  period.  Coming  from  Amsterdam  to 
London  in  1874  at  the  age  of  nine,  the  son 
of  a  Dutch  father  and  an  English  mother, 
Teixeira  ^  placed  himself  under  instruction 
with  Monsignor  Capel  and  was  received  in- 
to the  Holy  Roman  Catholic  Church.  In 
blood,  faith  and  nationality,  the  Dutch  Pro- 
testant of  Portuguese-Jewish  extraction  had 
thus  passed  through  many  vicissitudes  before 
he  married  an  Irish  wife,  became  a  British 
citizen  and  died  a  Catholic.  Traces  of  the 
Jew  survived  in  his  appearance ;  of  the  Dutch- 
man in  his  speech;  and  his  intellectual  and 
racial  mixed  ancestry  was  betrayed  by  a  cos- 
mopolitan outlook.  Ignorant  of  many  preju- 
dices that  are  the  native  Briton's  birthright, 
he  remained  ever  aloof  from  the  passions  of 
British  thought  and  speech.  If  he  respected, 
at  least  he  could  not  share  the  conventional 
enthusiasms  nor  associate  himself  with  the  con- 

1  The  Jonkheer  Alexander  Louis  Teixeira  de  Mattos  san 
Paio  y  Mendes.  The  family  was  Jewish  in  origin  and  was 
driven  from  Portugal  by  the  persecution  of  the  Holy  Office. 
Teixeira  was  naturalized  a  British  subject  in  the  middle  of  the 
war  and  gave  up  his  Dutch  title.  Even  before  this,  he  had 
contracted  his  full  style  to  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos  on 
ceremonial  occasions,  to  A.  Teixeira  in  departmental  corre- 
spondence and  to  Tex  or  T.  in  letters  to  his  friends. 

10 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ventional  judgements  of  his  new  countrymen. 
He  wrote  of  his  neighbours  among  whom  he 
had  lived  for  more  than  forty  years,  with  an 
unaffected  sense  of  remoteness,  as  "the  Eng- 
lish"; after  his  naturalization,  he  was  fond  of 
talking,  tongue  in  cheek,  about  what  "we  Eng- 
lish" thought  and  did;  but,  in  the  last  analysis, 
he  embodied  too  many  various  strains  to 
favour  any  single  nationality. 

After  being  educated  at  the  Kensington 
Catholic  Public  School  and  at  Beaumont, 
Teixeira  worked  for  some  time  in  the  City 
and  was  rescued  for  literature  by  J.  T.  Grein, 
who  made  him  secretary  of  the  Independent 
Theatre.  iBy  his  work  as  a  translator  and  as 
the  London  correspondent  of  a  Dutch  paper, 
he  lived  precariously  until  his  renderings  of 
Maeterlinck,  whose  official  translator  he  be- 
came with  The  Double  Garden,  called  public 
attention  to  a  new  quality  of  scholarship. 
Though  he  flirted  with  journalism,  as  editor 
of  Dramatic  Opinions  and  of  The  Candid 
Friend,  and  with  publishing,  in  connection 
with  Leonard  Smithers,  translation  was  the 
business  of  his  life  until  he  entered  govern- 
ment service.     He  is  best  known  for  his  ver- 

1 1 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

slon  of  Fabre's  natural  history,  which  he  lived 
to  complete  and  which  he  himself  regarded 
as  his  greatest  achievement,  for  the  later 
plays  and  essays  of  Maeterlinck,  for  the  novels 
and  stories  of  Ewald  and  for  the  novels 
of  Couperus.  These,  however,  formed  only 
a  part  of  his  output;  and  his  bibliography  in- 
cludes the  names  of  Zola,  Chateaubriand,  de 
Tocqueville,  President  Kruger,  Maurice  Le- 
blanc,  Madame  Leblanc,  Streuvels  and  many 
more.  One  work  alone  ran  to  more  than  a 
million  words;  and  he  married  on  a  com- 
mission to  translate  what  he  called  "the  long- 
est book  in  any  language". 

The  improvised  censorship  was  not  long 
suffered  to  function  unmolested.  The  home 
secretary,  learning  that  his  majesty's  mails 
were  being  opened  without  due  authority, 
warned  the  unorthodox  censors  that  they  were 
incurring  a  heavy  fine  for  each  offence  and 
advised  them  to  regularize  their  position. 
Simultaneously,  the  Customs  were  thrown  in- 
to difficulty  and  confusion,  ^  by  the  proclam- 

1 1  quote  from  Chapter  VII  of  JF/iile  I  Remember,  where  the 
genesis  of  the  department  is  described,  though  only  from  hear- 
say. 

12 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ation  of  the  king  in  council,  forbidding  all 
trade  with  the  enemy:  in  the  absence  of  re- 
cords, investigation  and  an  intelligence  de- 
partment, it  was  impossible  to  say  whether 
goods  cleared  from  London  would  ultimately 
reach  enemy  destination;  and  the  censors  who 
were  watching  the  cable  and  wireless  oper- 
ations of  Dutch  and  Scandinavian  importers 
seemed  the  natural  advisers  to  approach.  At 
this  point  the  embryonic  department,  which 
had  risen  from  the  ashes  of  the  National 
Service  League,  joined  with  a  licensing  del- 
egation from  the  Customs  to  form  the  War 
Trade  Department  and  Trade  Clearing 
House. 

Drifting  about  Westminster  from  Palace 
Street  to  Central  Buildings,  from  Central 
Buildings  to  Broadway  House  and  from 
Broadway  House  to  Lake  Buildings,  St. 
James'  Park,  the  War  Trade  Intelligence  De- 
partment, as  it  came  to  be  called,  was  made 
the  advisory  body  to  the  Blockade  Depart- 
ment of  the  Foreign  Office,  with  Lord  Robert 
Cecil  as  its  parliamentary  chief.  Sir  Henry 
Penson,  of  Worcester  College,  as  its  chair- 
man, and  H.  W.  C.  Davis,  of  Balliol,  as  its 

13 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

deputy-chairman.  Teixeira,  as  the  head  of 
the  Intelligence  Section,  controlled  the  supply 
of  advice  on  the  export  of  "prohibited  com- 
modities" to  neutral  countries;  as  a  member 
of  the  Advisory  Board,  he  came  later  to  share 
in  responsibility  for  the  department  as  a 
whole.  Among  his  colleagues,  not  already 
named,  were  "Freddie"  Browning,  the  first 
organizer  of  the  department,  O.  R.  A.  Simp- 
kin,  now  Public  Trustee,  H.  B.  Betterton, 
now  a  member  of  parliment,  Michael  Sadleir, 
the  novelist,  R.  S.  Rait,  the  Scottish  Historio- 
grapher-Royal, John  Palmer,  the  dramatic 
critic,  and  G.  L.  Bickersteth,  the  translator  of 
Carducci. 

When  the  department  came  to  an  end, 
Teixeira  resumed  his  interrupted  task  of  trans- 
lation, which  had,  indeed,  never  been  wholly 
abandoned;  his  daily  programme  during  the 
war  was  to  work  at  home  from  5.0  a.  m.  till 
8.0  a.  m.  and  in  his  department  from  lo.o  a.  m. 
till  6.0  p.  m.  or  7.0  p.  m.,  then  to  play 
bridge  for  an  hour  at  the  Cleveland  Club,  re- 
turning home  in  time  for  a  light  dinner  and 
an  early  bed.  ^ 

lEven  in  Teixeria's  wide  reading  there  were  occasional  gaps; 

14 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Leisure,  when  at  last  it  came  to  him,  was 
not  to  be  long  enjoyed:  early  in  1920,  a  fur- 
ther break  in  health  compelled  him  to  under- 
take a  rest-cure,  first  at  Crowborough  and  then 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  returned  to  Chelsea 
in  the  spring  of  192 1  and  spent  the  summer 
and  autumn  working  in  London  or  staying 
with  friends  in  the  country,  to  all  appear- 
ances better  than  he  had  been  for  some  years, 
though  in  play  and  work  alike  he  had  now  to 
walk  circumspectly.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
year  he  went  to  Cornwall  for  the  winter  and 
collapsed  from  angina  pectoris  on  5  De- 
cember 1921. 

In  a  life  of  nearly  fifty-seven  years  Teix- 
eira escaped  almost  everything  that  could  be 
considered  spectacular.  Happy  in  the  .de- 
votion of  his  wife  and  the  love  of  his  friends, 
unshaken  in  the  faith  which  he  had  embraced 

and,  until  I  brought  it  to  his  notice,  he  was  unacquainted  with 

the  celebrated  life  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren  by  Mr.  E.  Clerihew 

and  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton: 

'Sir  Christopher  Wren 

Said,  "I  am  going  to  dine  with  some  men. 

"If  anybody  calls 

"Say  I  am  designing  St.  Paul's."  ' 

After  reading  it,  Teixeira's  nightly  valediction  as  he  left  for 
his  bridge  club  was:  "I  think  .  .  .  yes,  I  think  I  shall  design 
St.  Paul's  for  an  hour  or  two." 

15 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

and  untroubled  by  the  misgivings  and  melan- 
choly that  assail  a  temperament  less  serene, 
he  faced  the  world  with  a  manner  of  gentle 
understanding  and  a  philosophy  of  almost  uni- 
versal toleration.  His  only  child — a  boy — 
died  within  a  few  hours  of  birth;  Teixeira 
was  troubled  for  years  by  ill-health;  he  was 
never  rich  and  seldom  even  assured  of  a  com- 
fortable income.  Nevertheless  his  temper  or 
faith  gave  him  power  to  extract  more  amuse- 
ment from  his  sufferings  than  most  men  de- 
rive from  the  plentitude  of  health  and  for- 
tune. Of  a  malady  new  even  to  his  expe- 
rience he  writes:  "Is  death  imminent?  Why 
do  I  always  have  the  rarer  disorders?"  He 
loved  life  to  the  end — the  world  was  always 
"God's  dear  world"  to  him — ;  to  the  end,  he, 
who  had  known  so  many  of  the  world's  waifs, 
continued  forbearing  to  all  but  the  censorious. 
"I  was  taught  very  early  in  life,"  he  writes, 
"to  make  every  allowance  for  men  of  any 
genius,  whereas  you  look  for  a  public-school 
attitude  towards  all  and  sundry.  .  .  .  You 
see,  if  one  cared  to  take  the  pains,  one  could 
make  you  detest  pretty  well  everybody  you 
know  and  like.     For  everybody  has  a  mean, 

i6 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

petty,  shabby,  cowardly  side  to  him;  and  one 
had  only  to  tell  you  of  what  the  man  in  ques- 
tion chooses  to  keep  concealed."  .  .  . 

"Life,"  said  Samuel  Butler,  "is  like  playing 
a  violin  solo  in  public  and  learning  the  instru- 
ment as  one  goes  on."  Those  who  met  Teix- 
eira only  in  his  later  years  must  have  felt  that 
he  was  born  a  master  of  his  instrument;  it 
is  not  to  be  imagined  that  there  could  ever 
have  been  a  time  when  he  was  ignorant  of 
the  grace,  the  urbanity,  the  consideration  and 
the  gusto  that  mark  ofif  the  artist  in  life  from 
his  fellows. 


n 


Ill 

Though  his  letters  contain  scattered  refer- 
ences to  the  principles  which  he  followed  in 
translation,  Teixeira  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  publish  his  complete  and  consid- 
ered theory.  His  excuse  was  that  he  had 
never  been  able  to  write  more  than  eight  hun- 
dred words  of  original  matter,  a  disability 
that  once  threatened  him  with  disaster  when 
he  was  invited  to  lecture  on  the  science  and 
art  of  bridge  to  the  members  of  a  club  formed 
for  mutual  improvement  and  the  pursuit  of 
learning.  After  being  entertained  at  a  forti- 
fying banquet,  Teixeira  delivered  his  eight- 
hundred  words.  As,  at  the  end  of  the  two 
and  three-quarter  minutes  which  his  reading 
occupied,  the  audience  seemed  ready  and 
even  anxious  for  more,  he  read  his  address 
a  second  time.  Later,  he  began  in  the  mid- 
dle; later  still,  he  ran  disgracefully  from  the 
hall. 

The  method  which  he  followed  in  trans- 
lation has,  therefore,  to  be  reconstructed  from 

i8 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

the  internal  evidence  of  his  books  and  from 
personal  experience  in  collaboration. 

"I  shall  not,"  wrote  Matthew  Arnold  in 
criticizing  Newman,  "in  the  least  concern 
myself  with  theories  of  translation  as  such. 
But  I  advise  the  translator  not  to  try  'to  rear 
on  the  basis  of  the  Iliad,  a  poem  that  shall 
afifect  our  countrymen  as  the  original  may  be 
conceived  to  have  affected  its  natural  hearers'; 
and  for  this  simple  reason,  that  we  cannot 
possibly  tell  how  the  Iliad  'affected  its  nat- 
ural hearers.'  " 

The  first  quality  that  distinguishes  Teixeira 
from  most  of  the  translators  whose  work  and 
methods  of  work  have  swelled  the  contro- 
versial literature  of  translation  is  that  he 
confined  himself  to  modern  authors.  Un- 
acquainted with  Greek  and  little  versed  in 
Tatin,  he  was  never  faced  with  the  difficulty 
of  having  to  imagine  how  an  original  work 
affected  its  natural  hearers.  Maeterlinck 
and  Couperus  were  his  personal  friends; 
Fabre  and  Ewald,  who  predeceased  him, 
were  older  contemporaries;  it  is  only  with  de 
Tocqueville  and  Chateaubriand  that  he  had 
to  gauge  the   intellectual  atmosphere  of  an 

19 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

earlier  generation.  In  judging  whether  his 
English  rendering  left  on  the  minds  of 
English  readers  the  same  impression  as  the 
original  had  left  on  its  "natural  hearers",  he 
had  a  court  of  appeal  always  available;  and, 
while  the  English  reader  is  "lulled  into  the 
illusion  that  he  is  reading  an  original  work", 
the  foreign  author  can  testify  to  the  fidelity 
with  which  his  text  has  been  followed  and  his 
spirit  reproduced.  "What  a  magnificent 
translation  The  Tour  is!"  Couperus  writes; 
"what  a  most  charming  little  book  it  has 
become!  I  am  in  raptures  over  it  and  have 
read  it  and  reread  it  all  day  and  have  had 
tears  in  my  eyes  and  have  laughed  over  it. 
You  may  think  it  silly  of  me  to  say  all  this; 
but  it  has  become  an  exquisitely  beautiful 
work  in  its  English  form.  My  warmest 
congratulations!" 

To  achieve  this  illusion,  Teixeira  began 
his  literary  life  with  the  most  essential  quality 
of  a  translator:  an  equal  knowledge  of  the 
language  that  was  to  be  translated  and  of  the 
language  into  which  he  was  translating  it. 
English  and  Dutch  came  to  him  by  inherit- 
ance;   French    and    Flemish,    German    and 

20 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Danish  he  added  by  study;  and  throughout 
his  working  life  he  was  incessantly  sharp- 
ening, polishing  and  adding  to  his  tools. 
Limitless  reading  refreshed  a  vast  vocab- 
ulary; meticulous  accuracy  refined  his  mean- 
ings and  justified  his  usages.  His  diction- 
aries were  annotated  freely;  and  the  margins 
of  his  manuscripts  were  filled  with  challenges 
and  suggestions  for  his  friends  to  consider, 
until  his  own  exacting  fastidiousness  had  at 
last  been  satisfied.  Apart  from  professional 
lexicographers,  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  find  a  man  with  more  words  in  current  use; 
it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  to  find 
one  who  employed  them  with  nicer  precision. 
Learning  sat  too  lightly  on  his  shoulders  to 
make  him  vain  of  it,  but  no  one  could  hear  or 
correspond  with  him  without  realizing  the 
presence  of  a  purist;  he  seldom  quoted,  mis- 
trusting his  memory,  confessed  himself  an 
amateur  in  colloquial  dialogue  and  refused 
with  equal  obstinacy  to  venture  on  English 
metaphors  and  English  field-sports.  "I  do 
not  know  the  difiference  between  a  niblick 
and  a  foursome,"  he  would  protest.  "When 
you  say  that  your  withers  are  unwrung,  I  do 

21 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

not  know  whether  you  are  boasting  or  com- 
plaining. What  are  your  withers?  Have 
you  any,  to  begin  with?  Do  you  'wring' 
them  or  'ring'  them?  And  why  can't  you 
leave  them  alone?" 

Not  content  with  mastering  five  foreign 
languages,  Teixeira  created  a  new  literary 
English  for  every  new  kind  of  book  that  he 
translated.  His  versions  of  Maeterlinck's 
Blue  Bird,  Couperus'  Old  People  and  The 
Things  That  Pass^  Fabre's  Hunting  Wasps 
and  Ewald's  My  Little  Boy  have  nothing  in 
common  but  their  exquisite  sympathy  and 
scholarship;  four  different  men  might  have 
produced  them  if  four  men  could  be  found 
with  the  same  taste,  knowledge  and  diligence. 
Fabre's  ingenuous  air  of  perpetual  discovery 
demanded  the  style  of  a  grave,  grown-up 
child;  Maeterlinck's  mystical  essays  invited 
a  hint  of  preciosity  and  aloofness,  to  suggest 
that  omniscience  was  expounding  infinity 
through  symbols  older  than  time;  and  the 
atmospheric  sixth-sense  of  Couperus  had  to 
be  communicated  by  a  sensitiveness  of  lan- 
guage that  could  create  pictures  and  conjure 
up    intangible    clouds    of    discontent,    guilty 

22 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

terror,  suppressed  antagonism  or  universal 
boredom.  In  reading  the  original,  Teixeira 
seemed  to  steep  himself  in  the  personality  of 
his  author  until  he  could  pass,  like  a  reper- 
tory actor,  from  one  mood  and  expression  to 
another;  his  own  mannerisms  are  confined  to 
a  few  easily  defended  peculiarities  of  spelling 
and  punctuation. 

For  a  man  who  must  surely  have  divined 
that  his  calibre  was  unique,  Teixeira  was 
engagingly  free  from  touchiness.  In  trans- 
lating a  book,  as  in  organizing  a  department, 
he  was  magnificently  grateful  for  the  word 
that  had  eluded  him  and  for  the  criticism 
which  he  had  not  foreseen.  A  purist  in 
language  and  a  precisian  in  everything,  he 
realized  that  a  living  style  is  throttled  by  too 
great  obedience  to  rules;  but  he  was  afraid, 
even  in  dialogue,  of  unchaining  a  wind  of 
colloquialism  which  he  might  be  unable  to 
control;  and,  in  constructing  the  deliberately 
artificial  speech  of  his  Maeterlinck  trans- 
lations, he  recognized  that  he  lacked  his 
readers'  age-old  familiarity  with  the  English 
of  the  Bible.  Though  his  passion  for  con- 
sistency led  him  to  say:     "My  name  ought  to 

23 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

have  been  Procrus-Tex,"  he  stretched  out 
both  hands  for  an  authority  that  would  jus- 
tify him  in  broadening  his  rule.  "I  have 
always  spelt  judgment  without  an  e  in  the 
middle,"  he  declared  in  1915,  when,  with  the 
gravity  that  characterized  his  more  trivial 
decisions,  he  had  abandoned  violet  ink,  be- 
cause it  seemed  frivolous  in  war-time,  and  the 
long  s  (i),  because  it  bore  a  Teutonic  aspect. 
*'I  am  too  old  to  change  now;  and  you  know 
my  rule.  All  or  None."  Four  years  later  he 
announced:  "In  future  I  shall  spell  'judge- 
ment with  an  e  in  the  middle.  The  New 
English  Dictionary  favours  it;  you  assure  me 
that  it  is  so  spelt  in  your  English  prayer- 
book;  and  Germany  has  signed  the  peace 
terms." 

No  comparison  with  other  translators  can 
be  attempted  until  another  arise  with  Teix- 
eira's  range  of  languages  and  his  volume  of 
achievement.  He  himself  could  never  say, 
within  a  dozen,  how  many  books  he  had 
translated;  but  in  them  all  he  created  such  an 
illusion  of  originality  that  they  are  not  sus- 
pected of  being  translations  until  his  name  is 
seen.     In  a  wider  view,  he  undermined  the 

24 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

pretensions  of  those  who  boasted  that  they 
could  never  read  translations;  and,  if  no  one 
is  likely  to  be  found  with  all  his  gifts,  he  at 
least  prepared  the  way  for  a  new  school  of 
translators.  It  may  be  hoped  that,  after  the 
battles  which  he  fought,  important  foreign 
authors  will  not  again  be  sacrificed  to  illit- 
erate hacks  at  five-shillings  a  thousand  words: 
it  may  even  be  expected  that  competent 
scholars  will  no  longer  disdain  the  task  of 
translating  contemporary  works.  All  liter- 
ary predictions  are  rash;  but  there  seems 
little  risk  in  prophesying  that  Teixeira's  ren- 
derings of  Fabre,  Couperus  and  Maeterlinck 
will  be  read  as  long  as  the  originals. 

The  tangible  fruits  of  his  astonishing 
industry  are  only  a  part  of  his  achievement: 
it  is  to  him,  in  company  with  Constance 
Garnett,  William  Archer,  Aylmer  Maude 
and  the  other  undaunted  pioneers,  that  Eng- 
lish readers  owe  their  escape  from  the  self- 
satisfied  insularity  with  which  they  had  pro- 
tected themselves  against  continental  litera- 
ture. When  publishers  have  been  convinced 
that  translations  need  not  be  unprofitable 
and  when  a  conservative  public  has  discov- 

25 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ered  that  they  need  not  be  unreadable,  a 
future  generation  may  be  privileged  to  have 
prompt  access  to  every  noteworthy  book  in 
whatsoever  language  it  has  been  written, 
without  waiting  as  the  present  generation  has 
had  to  wait  for  an  English  rendering  of 
Tolstoi,  Turgenieff,  Dostoieffski  and  Tche- 
hov. 

In  conversation  Teixeira  took  little  pleas- 
ure in  discussing  himself;  in  correspondence 
he  could  not  help  giving  himself  away.  The 
reader  will  deduce,  from  his  slow  surrender 
of  intimacy,  the  shyness  that  ever  conflicted 
with  his  sociability;  the  absence  of  all  al- 
lusions to  his  literary  work,  save  when  he 
fancied  that  a  second  opinion  might  help 
him,  is  evidence  of  a  personal  modesty  that 
amounted  almost  to  unconsciousness  of  his 
position  in  letters.  Diffidence  and  socia- 
bility, first  conflicting,  then  joining  forces, 
led  him  in  his  departmental  work  to  discuss 
every  problem  with  a  friend;  and  in  all  per- 
sonal relationships,  he  needed  an  hourly  con- 
fidant because  everything  in  life  was  an 
adventure  to  be  shared  and  might  be  worked 
in  later  to  the  saga  with  which  he  strove  to 

26 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

make  himself  ridiculous  for  the  diversion  of 
his  company.  "Thus,"  he  writes  of  a  childish 
freak,  "do  the  elderly  amuse  themselves  for 
the  further  amusement  of  a  limited  circle." 
Weighty  commissions  were  assembled,  daring 
expeditions  set  out  under  his  leadership  to 
choose  a  dressing-gown  for  country-house 
wear;  the  grey  tall-hat  with  which  he  sur- 
prised one  private  view  of  the  Royal  Academy 
was  no  less  of  a  surprise  to  him  and  even 
more  of  an  abiding  pleasure.  For  a  year  or 
two  afterwards  he  would  telephone  on  the 
first  of  May:  "If  you  will  wear  your  good- 
ish  white  topper  to-day,  I  will  wear  mine"; 
and  once,  when  these  conspicuous  headpieces 
were  in  evidence,  he  led  the  way  to  Covent 
Garden  Market,  with  the  words:  "It  is  not 
every  day  that  the  women  of  the  market  see 
two  men  in  such  hats,  such  coats  and  such 
spats,  standing  before  a  fruit-stall  with  their 
canes  crooked  over  their  arms  and  their 
yellow  gloves  protruding  from  their  pockets, 
consuming  the  first  green  figs  of  the  year  in 
the  year's  first  sunshine." 

In  conversation  he  once  boasted  that  he  was 
never    bored;    and,   though    every   man    and 

27 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

woman  at  the  table  volunteered  the  names  of 
at  least  six  people  who  would  bore  him  to 
extinction,  the  boast  was  justified  in  that, 
however  irksome  one  moment  might  be,  it 
could  always  be  invested  afterwards  with  the 
glamour  of  an  eccentric  adventure.  Some- 
where, among  his  immediate  ascendants,  there 
must  have  been  a  not  too  remote  ancestor  of 
Peter  Pan.  On  his  fifty-sixth  birthday,  Teix- 
eira was  having  a  party  arranged  for  him, 
with  a  cake  and  fifty-six  tiny  candles;  for  days 
beforehand  he  had  been  asking  for  presents 
of  any  kind,  to  impress  the  other  visitors  in 
his  hotel;  and,  if  he  knew  one  joy  greater 
than  receiving  presents,  it  was  finding  an 
excuse  to  give  them. 

With  the  heart  of  a  child  in  all  things,  he 
had  the  child's  quality  of  being  frightened  by 
small  pains  and  undaunted  by  great;  a  cut 
finger  was  an  occasion  for  panic,  but  the 
threat  of  blindness  found  him  indomitable. 
Herein  he  was  supported  throughout  life  by 
the  faith  which  he  had  acquired  in  boyhood 
and  which  he  preserved  until  his  death.  "I 
save  my  temper,"  he  once  wrote,  "by  not  dis- 
cussing   religion    except   with    Catholics    or 

28 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

politics  except  with  liberals.  There's  room 
for  discussion  in  the  nuances;  there's  too  much 
room  for  it  with  those  who  call  my  black 
white."  .  .  .  While  it  was  generally  known 
among  his  friends  that  he  was  a  devout  Cath- 
olic, only  a  few  were  allowed  to  see  how  much 
reliance  he  placed  in  religion;  and  he  would 
grow  impatient  with  what  he  considered  a 
morbid  protestant  passion  for  worrying  at 
something  that  for  him  had  been  immutably 
settled. 

In  political  debates  he  would  only  join  at 
the  prompting  of  extreme  sympathy  or  ex- 
treme exasperation.  His  native  feeling  for 
the  Boers  in  the  Transvaal  was  little  shared 
in  England  during  the  South  African  war; 
and  his  loathing  for  English  misrule  in  Ire- 
land was  too  strong  to  be  ventilated  acceptably 
among  the  people  whom  he  met  most  com- 
monly in  London.  His  connection  with  the 
Legitimist  cause  came  to  an  end  with  the  out- 
break of  war:  though  he  had  hitherto  de- 
lighted in  penetrating  beween  the  sentries  at 
St.  James'  Palace  and  placarding  the  wall 
with  an  appeal  to  all  loyal  subjects  of  the 
rightful  king,  he  was  unable  to  continue  his 

29 


Alexander'  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

allegiance   when   Prince    Rupprecht  of   Ba- 
varia became  an  enemy  alien. 

Legitimacy  and  Catholicism,  apart  from 
other  claims  on  his  regard,  gratified  a  love 
for  ceremonial  and  tradition  that  would  have 
been  more  incongruous  in  a  liberal  if  Teix- 
eira's  whole  equipment  of  beliefs,  practices 
and  preferences  had  not  been  a  collection 
of  incongruities.  Though  he  detested  mili- 
tarism, he  could  never  understand  why  the 
English  civilians  omitted  to  uncover  to  the 
colours;  hating  pomposity,  he  enjoyed  the 
grand  manner  in  address  and,  on  being 
greeted  by  a  peer  as  ''my  dear  sir,"  replied 
"my  dear  lord"  in  a  formula  beloved  by  Dis- 
raeli. As  a  relief  to  an  accuracy  of  ex- 
pression which  he  himself  called  Procrustean 
and  pernickety,  he  would  transform  any  word 
that  he  thought  would  look  or  sound  more 
engaging  for  a  little  mutilation.  It  was  a 
bad  day  for  the  English  of  his  letters  when  he 
read  Heine  and  entered  into  competition  for 
the  most  torturing  play  upon  words;  his 
case  became  hopeless  when  he  was  introduced 
to  a  couple  of  friends  who  could  pun  with 
him  in  four  or  five  languages.     It  was  this 

30 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

bent  of  mind  that  may  justify  the  description 
of  him^  as  the  son  of  Edward  Lear  and  the 
grandson  of  Charles  Lamb. 

Underlying  the  whimsical  humour  of  his 
letters  and  peeping  through  the  mock  solem- 
nity of  his  speech  was  a  young  child's  concern 
for  the  welfare  of  his  friends:  himself  never 
growing  up,  he  never  outgrew  his  generous 
delight  in  any  success  that  came  to  them;  their 
ill-health  and  sorrow  were  harder  to  bear 
than  his  own;  and  he  shewed  a  child's  impul- 
sive generosity  in  offering  all  he  had  in  com- 
fort. Sympathy,  help,  experience  and  advice 
were  at  hand  for  whosoever  would  take  them: 
he  had  too  long  lived  precariously  to  forget 
the  tragedy  of  those  who  failed  and  failed 
again;  he  knew  life  too  well  to  grow  impatient 
with  those  who  failed  through  no  one's  fault 
but  their  own. 

Love  of  life,  enduring  to  the  end,  know- 
ledge of  life,  increasing  every  day,  combined 
to  join  this  heart  of  a  child  to  the  experience 
of  an  old  man.  As  a  connoisseur  of  food  and 
wine,  as  of  style  and  manner,  he  belonged  to 
a  generation  that  ranked  life  as  the  greatest 

1  From  the  notice  of  his  death  in  The  Times. 

31 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

of  the  fine  arts.  To  lunch  with  him  was  to 
receive  a  liberal  education  in  gastronomy, 
though  his  course  of  personal  instruction 
sometimes  broke  down  for  lack  of  material: 
from  time  to  time  he  would  announce  with 
jubilation  that  he  had  discovered  some  rare 
vintage  in  some  unknown  restaurant;  a  party 
would  be  organized  to  sample  it,  only  to  be 
informed  that  the  last  bottle  had  been  con- 
sumed by  Mr.  Teixeira  the  day  before. 

As  an  explorer,  he  remained,  to  his  last 
hour,  at  the  age  when  a  boy  lingers  raptur- 
ously before  one  shop  after  another,  enjoying 
all  impartially,  sharing  his  enjoyment  with 
every  passer-by,  confident  that  life  is  an  un- 
ending vista  of  glittering  shop-windows  and 
that  the  day  must  somehow  be  long  enough 
for  him  to  take  them  all  in. 


32 


IV 

Max  Beerbohm's  caricature  of  Teixeira, 
discovered  later — to  the  subject's  delight— in 
the  waiting-room  of  an  eminent  gynaecolog- 
ist, emphasizes  the  most  strongly  marked 
natural  and  acquired  characteristics  of  his  ap- 
pearance: a  big  nose  and  a  liking  for  the  fan- 
tastic in  dress.  There  is  hardly  space,  in  the 
drawing,  even  for  the  tiny  hat  of  the  music- 
hall  comedian,  so  devastating  is  the  sweep  of 
that  nose,  outward  from  the  lips,  up  and 
round,  annihilating  forehead  and  cranium 
until  it  merges  in  the  nape  of  the  neck.  Of 
the  dress  no  more  need  be  said  than  that  it 
looks  like  a  valiant  attempt  to  live  up  to  the 
nose. 

As  this  caricature  has  not  been  published  in 
any  collection  of  Max  Beerbohm's  drawings, 
it  was  probably  unknown  to  most  of  those  who 
were  brought  into  the  Intelligence  Section 
of  the  War  Trade  Intelligence  Department, 
there  to  be  introduced  to  its  head,  to  receive 
the  handshake  and  bow  of  a  courtier  and  to 

33 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

wonder  how  Tenniel  could  have  drawn  the 
old  sheep  in  Alice  Through  the  Looking- 
Glass  without  Teixeira  as  a  model.  Tall  and 
broad-shouldered,  with  thick  black  hair  and 
a  white  face,  tortoise-shell-rimmed  spectacles, 
and  a  cigarette  in  a  holder,  taciturn,  impas- 
sive and  unsmiling,  Teixeira  never  failed  to 
conceal  that  he  was  more  shy  than  his  visitor. 
With  articulation  as  beautifully  clear  as  his 
writing  and  in  words  not  less  exquisitely 
chosen  than  the  language  of  his  books,  he 
would  introduce  the  newcomer  to  those  with 
whom  he  was  to  work.  Messengers  would 
be  despatched  to  bring  an  additional  chair 
and  table.  In  the  resultant  confusion,  the 
immense,  silent  figure  would  walk  away  with 
a  heavy  tread,  to  find  that  a  pile  of  papers, 
two  feet  high,  had  risen  like  an  Indian  mango 
where  there  had  been  but  six  inches  a  moment 
before.  A  voice  of  authority,  rolling  its  r's 
like  the  rumble  of  distant  artillery,  would 
telephone  for  more  messengers;  in  time  the 
pile  would  dwindle  until  the  spectacles  and 
then  the  nose  and  then  the  cigarette-holder 
were  visible.     In  time,  too,  the  newcomer  re- 

34 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

covered  from  his  fright  and  set  about  learn- 
ing the  business  of  the  department. 

It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  hear  "this 
Olympian  creature",  as  Stevenson  called 
Prince  Florizel,  addressed  by  Sutro  as  "Tex"; 
and,  although  the  first  terror  w^as  disabling, 
even  the  newcomer  realized  that  every  one  in 
the  section  seemed  happy.  The  Olympian 
creature  never  lost  his  temper,  he  condes- 
cended to  jokes  and  invented  nicknames;  the 
appalling  gravity  was  found  to  be  a  mask  for 
shyness  and  a  disguise  for  bubbling  absurdity. 

In  the  summer  of  191 5  the  machinery  of 
the  blockade  was  still  making.  The  depart- 
ment, overworked  and  understaffed,  was  in- 
adequately housed  in  a  corner  of  Central 
Buildings,  Westminster.  In  the  autumn  it 
moved  to  Broadway  House,  in  Tothill  Street; 
and  one  newcomer  was  invited  to  sit  at  Teix- 
eira's  table  as  deputy-head  of  the  section. 
Thenceforth,  until  the  armistice,  we  worked 
together  daily,  save  when  one  or  other  was  on 
leave  or  ill  and  during  the  early  summer  of 
19 17  when  I  was  sent  to  Washington.  The 
office,  changing  almost  weekly  in  personnel, 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

underwent  reconstruction  when  the  blockade 
was  modified  in  1918:  Teixeira  became  sec- 
retary to  the  department;  I  succeeded  him 
as  head  of  the  intelligence  section;  and,  when 
I  left  in  1919,  he  stayed  behind  to  help  in 
dismantling  the  old  machine  and  in  assem- 
bling a  new  one  to  supply  economic  inform- 
ation to  the  peace  conference. 

Our  correspondence  for  the  last  three  years 
of  the  war  was  restricted  to  the  times  when 
one  of  us  was  away.  These  absences  grew 
more  frequent  as  Teixeira  exchanged  one 
illness  for  another.  His  letters  present  him 
as  a  government  servant  rejoicing  in  his  work, 
tingling  with  the  new  sense  of  new  respon- 
sibility and,  "from  his  circumstances  having 
been  always  such,  that  he  had  scarcely  any 
share  in  the  real  business  of  life",  suggesting 
irresistibly  a  comparison  with  Dr.  Johnson 
at  the  sale  of  his  friend  Thrale's  brewery, 
"bustling  about,  with  an  ink-horn  and  pen  in 
his  button-hole,  like  an  exciseman".  So  much 
of  them,  however,  is  taken  up  with  depart- 
mental business  that  I  have  drawn  sparingly 
upon  them. 

36 


V 

The  first  five  months  of  1916  were  a  time 
of  relatively  good  health  for  Teixeira;  and 
our  correspondence  contains  little  more  than 
an  invitation,  which  he  acknowledged  in 
departmental  language. 

I  wrote: 

Tuesday,  Jan.  4th,  igi6. 
Though  long  I've  wished  to  bid  you  come  and 
dine, 
Your  way  of  life  stood  ever  in  the  way; 
For  you,  I  gather,  go  to  bed  at  nine 

And  rise  at  five  (or  five-fifteen)  next  day. 

Yet    Tuesday   brings   my    chance.     At   half -past 
eight 

I  go  to  guard  my  king;  but,  ere  I  go, 
H^ith  meat  and  wine  I  purpose  to  inflate 

My  sagging  stomach  for  an  hour  or  so. 

Then  will  you  join  me?  Seven  o'clock,  I  think: 
The  Mausoleum  Club  is  fairly  near: 

Whatever  your  heart  desire  of  food  and  drink, 
And  any  kind  of  clothes  you  choose  to  wear. 

S.  McK. 

37 


.24958:? 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

We  should  be  glad,  replies  Teixeira,  if  this 
application  could  come  up  again  in  say  a  fort- 
night's time. 

A.  T. 
Trade  Clearing  House. 

When  next  I  was  summoned  for  duty  as  a 
special  constable,  the  application  was  sub- 
mitted again;  and  Teixeira  dined  with  me  at 
the  Reform  Club.  Later  in  the  year,  though 
he  had  been  warned  by  William  Campbell, 
the  greatest  friend  of  his  middle  years,  that  a 
man  who  laughed  so  much  would  never  be 
admitted  to  membership,  I  was  allowed  to 
propose  him  as  a  candidate;  and  from  the  day 
of  his  election  he  became  one  of  the  most 
popular  figures  both  in  the  card-room  and 
in  the  south-east  corner  of  the  big  smoking- 
room,  where  his  most  intimate  associates  gath- 
ered. 

His  hours  of  work,  to  which  the  first  stanza 
refers,  have  already  been  mentioned;  his 
methods  call  for  a  word  or  two  of  description. 
The  library  in  Cheltenham  Terrace  looked 
out  over  the  Duke  of  York's  School  and  was 
lined    with     book-cases    wherever    windows, 

38 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

fire-place  or  door  permitted.  The  furniture 
consisted  of  a  sofa,  whch  was  used  for  hat- 
boxes  and  more  books;  a  writing-table,  which 
was  used  for  anything  but  writing;  a  revolving 
book-case,  filled  with  works  of  reference; 
and  the  editorial  chair  from  the  office  of  The 
Candid  Friend.  Seating  himself  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  between  the  fire-place  and 
the  revolving  book-case,  Teixeira  dug  him- 
self into  position:  a  despatch-box  under  his 
feet  raised  his  knees  to  an  angle  at  which  he 
could  balance  a  dictionary  upon  them,  with 
its  edge  resting  on  a  miniature  bureau;  on  the 
dictionary  rested  a  blotting-pad;  and  every 
book  that  he  needed  was  in  reach  either  of  his 
hand  or  an  elongated  pair  of  "lazy-tongs"; 
scissors,  string,  sealing-wax,  india-rubber  and 
knives  were  ingeniously  and  menacingly  sus- 
pended from  nails  in  the  revolving  book-case; 
on  the  top  stood  cigarettes,  matches,  a  paste- 
pot  and  a  vast  copper  ash-tub;  and  the  colour 
of  his  violet  carpet  was  chosen  to  conceal  the 
occasional  splashings  of  a  violet-ink  pen. 
With  a  telephone  on  one  side  to  put  him  in 
touch  with  the  outside  world  and  with  a  bell 
on   the  other  to  secure  his  morning  coffee, 

39 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Teixeira  could  work  without  moving  until 
evicted  by  force. 

In  the  beginning  of  June,  he  was  ordered  to 
Malvern. 

No  news,  he  writes  on  the  loth,  except  that 
I  have  arrived  and  had  some  tea.   .   .   . 

There  are  hawthorns  at  Malvern  and  rhodo- 
dendrons of  -dra  hut  also  the  most  bloodthirsty 
hills.  And  there  was  an  officer  in  the  train  who 
told  me  that  the  feeling  in  Franst  was  most 
"optimistic" . 

The  proprietress  of  this  hotel  pronounces  my 
name  Teisheira.      This  must  he  looked  into. 

I  s'pose  Fm  enjoying  myself,  he  writes  next 
day.     /  feel  very  restless. 

[My  cook],  /  forgot  to  tell  you,  was  mounting 
guard  over  the  dispatch-box  like  a  very  sentinel, 
with  hands  duly  folded:  a  most  proper  spectacle. 
I  nearly  died,  but  not  entirely,  hunting  for  my 
porter  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  longest 
train  you  ever  saw  (I  am  sure  this  must  he  cor- 
rect, in  view  of  the  fact  that  you  never  did  see 
this    particular   train).   .   .   . 

This  hotel  is  not  so  uncomfortable:  I  slept 
eight  hours;  I  have  a  writing-table  in  my  room; 
my  bath  was  too  hot  to  get  into;  these  are  signs 
of  human  comfort,  are  not  they?     Nor  is  the 

40 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

food  nasty.  Fortunately,  there  is  not  much  of  it. 
I  ordered  me  a  bottle  of  Berncastler  Doctor. 
They  brought  me  Liebfraumilch.  I  waved  it 
away,  saying  that  hock  was  acid  and  gave  me 
gout.  Then,  persuaded  to  be  a  Christian,  I  sent 
one  running  after  it  before  the  doctor  was  opened 
and  drank  two  glasses;  and  it  was  delicious;  and 
I  have  no  gout. 

fVhy  I  sit  boring  you  with  this  dull  stuff  I  do 
not  know:  it  is  certainly  not  worth  including  in 
the  Life  and  Letters. 

Two  days  of  solitude  set  him  athirst  for 
companionship. 

Good-morning,  fair  sir,  he  writes  on  12.  6. 
16.  /  hope  this  finds  you  as  it  leaves  me  at 
present,  a  little  improved  in  health.  But  I  would 
not  wish  my  worst  enemy  the  weariness  from 
which  I  am  suffering.  .  .  .  Picture  me  buying 
useless  things  so  that  I  may  exchange  a  word 
with  a  shopman;  for  no  one  talks  to  me  here. 
Also  the  weather  is  bitterly  cold. 

And  next  day: 

/  have  .  .  .  talked  at  length  to  a  highly  in- 
telligent Dane,  with  a  massy  pair  of  calves  that 
do  credit  to  his  pastoral  country.  But  he  has 
returned  to  town  this  morning. 

41 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

They  play  very  low  at  the  club,  fortunately,  for 
I  lost  13/-,  which  would  have  been  £10,  had  I 
been  playing  R.  A.  C.  points.  Also  they  make 
me  too  late  to  dress  for  dinner,  which  doesn't 
matter:  nothing  matters  in  this  zuorld. 

For  the  rest,  I  have  reason  to  think  that  I 
shall  begin  to  cheer  up  from  to-morrow  and  to 
remain  cheerful  until  Saturday.  That  is  "speech- 
day" — I  presume  at  Malvern  College — when  I 
expect  to  see  an  awful  invasion  of  horribohble 
papas  and  mammas. 

Bless  you. 

The  hoped-for  cheerfulness  has  not  yet  arrived, 
he  laments  on  14.  6.  16.  /  live  in  one  of  the 
most  tragic  of  worlds.  But  .  .  .  I  have  had 
more  conversation.  The  place  of  the  Dane  zvith 
the  fatted  calves  .  .  .  has  been  taken  by  a  par- 
son, a  passon,  a  parsoon,  an  elderly  parsoon  with 
the  complete  manner  of  the  late  Mr.  Penley  in 
The  Private  Secretary:  he  would  like  to  give 
every  German  a  good,  hard  slap,  I  am  sure.  He 
is  a  much-travelled  7nan;  and  his  ignorance  of 
every  place  which  he  has  visited  is  thoroughly  en- 
tertaining.  .   .   . 

I  am  becoming  popular  at  the  club:  they  took 
12/-  out  of  me  yesterday.  I  must  set  my  teeth 
and  get  it  back  though. 

42 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

The  influx  of  odious  parents,  he  writes  on 
18.  6.  16,  ivith  their  loalhy,  freckled  criminals 
of  offspring  has  flustered  the  waiters  and  is  spoil- 
ing all  my  meals.  What  I  do  now  is  to  change 
for  dinner  after  all  and  come  in  exactly  an  hour 
late  for  meals.  They  have  some  way  of  keeping 
the  food — such  as  it  is — piping  hot;  and  so  I  do 
not  suffer  unduly  for  avoiding  the  sight  of  so7ne, 
at  least,  of  the  carroty-headed  boys  and  their 
thick-ankled  sisters.   .   .   . 

Ah  well!  I  can  begin  to  count  the  days  until 
I  am  back  among  you;  and  a  glad  day  that  zvill 
he  for  me!  Nobody  in  the  world,  I  think,  hates 
either  rest  or  enjoyment  so  much  as  I  do. 

Good-bye.  I  am  going  for  a  walk.  I  tell  you 
frankly,  I  am  going  for  a  walk.  I  tell  you  this 
frankly.   .   .   . 

On  Teixeira's  return  to  the  department, 
our  correspondence  was  suspended  until  I 
went  to  Cornwall  for  a  week's  leave  in  Aug- 
ust. When  I  wrote  in  praise  of  my  surround- 
ings, he  replied  with  a  warning: 

You  are  probably  too  young  ever  to  have  heard 
of  ...  a  play-actress  .  .  .  who  brought  a  breach 
of  promise  action  .  .  .  and  earned  the  then 
record  damages  of  £10,000.     She  took  a  cottage 

43 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

so77iewhere  the  other  day  and  brought  her  mother 
to  live  in  it.  The  mother  said,  ''This  is  just  the 
sort  of  place  I  like;  I  shall  he  happy  here,''  then 
fell  down  the  stairs  and  was  dead  in  half  an 
hour.  .  .  . 

.  .   .  Remember  me  to  the  Atlantic.  .  .   . 

The  next  letter  contained  a  story  from 
Ireland: 

'Sligo,  1 8  August  igi6. 
.  .  .  Here,  in  this  most  distressful  country,  Kve 
are  about  to  experience  again  the  blessings  of 
coercion,  adfuinistered  by  Duke,  K.  C,  and  Car- 
son, high  priest  of  the  cult.  In  Sligo,  the  other 
day,  two  ladies  treating  each  other  in  a  public- 
house,  the  barman  intervened  at  the  tenth  drink, 
saying: 

"Stop  it  now;  ye  can't  have  any  more;  troth, 
I  wont  sarve  ye  again.  Don't  ye  know  it's  Mar- 
tial Law  that's  on  the  people?' 

Whereupon  one  of  them  enquired  of  the  other: 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Mrs.  Murphy,  what's 

he  talking  about  at  all?     IFho's  Martial  Law?" 

To  which  her  friend  replied  sotto  voce : 

"Whist,    don't    be    showing    your    ignorance, 

ma'am!     Don't  ye  know  he's  a  brother  of  Bonar 

Law's?".   .   . 

44 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

As  official  papers  accompanied  every  letter, 
a  trace  of  departmental  style  is  occasionally 
visible  in  private  notes: 

fFar  Trade  Intelligence  Department. 
25  August,   igi6. 
"Harry  Edwin"  ate  a  grouse  last  night  and  drank 
viany  glasses  of  port.      You  can  imagine  the  sort 
of  grumpy  commensal  that  he  is  to-day. 

A.  T. 
"Harry  Edwin.'' 
To  see. 
25.  8.  16. 
Seen  and  approved. 
H.  E.  P. 
.   .   .  Don  t  overbathe,  he  adds  as  a  postscript. 
JVhy   be   so   reckless?      You   remind   me    of   the 
London  city  "chirks"  who  arrive  in  Switzerland 
one  evening,  run  straight  up  the  Matterhorn  the 
next  morning.     I  believe  that   two   per  cent  of 
them  do  not  drop  dead. 

The  Sehr  Hochwohlgeboren  iind  Verdamniter 
Graf  Zeppelin,  he  writes  on  25.  18.  16,  did 
some  damage  last  night  at  Greenwich,  Blackwall 
(a  power-station)  etc.  For  the  rest,  no  news. 
I  am  picking  up  not  wholly  unconsidered  trifles 
at    the    fVelUngton    and    benefiting   your    Uncle 

45 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Reggie  pro  rata.  [Bridge  winnings  at  this  time 
were  thriftily  exchanged  for  War  Savings  Certifi- 
cates,] This  morning  I  (pro )-rated  the  girl  .  .  . 
at  the  post-office  for  not  "pushing"  those  certifi- 
cates. I  said  that,  whenever  any  one  asked  for 
a  penny  stamp,  she  should  ask: 

"May  we  not  supply  you  with  one  of  these?" 
It  went  very  well  with  the  audience. 

This  morning,  he  writes  later,  /  have  bought 
my  thirteenth  fifteen-and-sixpennyworth  of  Uncle 
Reggie.  Alindful  of  my  injunction  to  "push"  the 
goods,  the  post-office  girl  .  .  .  urged  me  to  buy 
a  £ig.  7.  affair  which  would  be  good  for  £2^  in 
five  years'  tifne.     Alas!     Still,  there  are  hopes. 

In  his  preface  to  The  Admirable  Bashville, 
Bernard  Shaw  explains  his  reason  for  throw- 
ing it  into  blank  verse:  "I  had  but  a  week 
to  write  it  in.  iBlank  verse  is  so  childishly 
easy  and  expedious  (hence,  by  the  way, 
Shakespeare's  copious  output),  that  by  adopt- 
ing it  I  was  enabled  to  do  within  the  week 
what  would  have  cost  me  a  month  in  prose." 
Pressure  of  work  sometimes  drove  Teixeira 
to  a  similar  expedient  in  rimed  verse : 

Letter   just   received,   he   writes    in   haste    on 

46 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

26.  8.  16.  to  acknowledge  the  account  of  a  bath- 
ing mishap : 

With  great  relief  at  noon  I  found 
That  S.  McKenna  was  not  drowned. 
Many   thanks  for   the  pendant   to   these   lovely 
verses. 

P.  S.  I  note — and  we  all  note — he  adds — that 
you  never  express  the  wish  to  see  us  all  again. 
How  different  from  my  Malvern  letters/  Ah, 
what  a  terrible  thing  is  sincerity/ 


47 


VI 

On  Holy  Saturday,  1917,  I  was  asked  by 
the  deputy-chairman  whether  I  would  repre- 
sent the  department  on  the  mission  which 
Mr.  Balfour  was  taking  to  Washington  with  a 
view  to  coordinating  the  war-organization  of 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States. 

For  the  next  two  months  Teixeira  and  I 
communicated  whenever  a  bag  passed  be- 
tween the  British  Embassy  and  the  Foreign 
Office,  overflowing  into  a  brief  journal  be- 
tweenwhiles.  He  also  disposed  of  my  varied 
correspondence  with  uniform  discretion  and 
with  a  courage  that  only  failed  him  when  un- 
known mothers  asked  him  if  I  would  stand 
sponsor  to  their  children. 

The  enquiries  into  the  cause  of  your  absence, 
he  writes  on  12.  4.  17,  have  been  distressing. 
More  people  ask  if  you  are  ill  than  if  you  are 
being  married.  The  unit  of  the  last  idea  was 
Sutro,  who  then  went  of  to  Davis  and  found 
out  what  he  wanted  to  know.   .  .  . 

48 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

7j  April. 

The  work  is  pretty  stiff  and  I  doubt  if  I  can 

make  this  desultory  diary  as  gossipy  as  I  could 

have  wished.     And,  after  all,  it  will  seem  pretty 

stale  and  jejune  by  the  time  it  reaches  you.   .   .   . 

Your  whereabouts  are  known  now  in  the  dept. 
and  will  be  at  the  club  to-morrow,  if  any  one  asks 
me  again.  Hitherto  great  wonder  has  reigned; 
but  the  "no  blame  attaches  to  his  name"  stunt 
has  worked  exquisitely. 

The  figure  of  Max  Beerbohm's  caricature 
is  seen  in  the  following  paragraph: 

/  have  ordered  eight  new  coloured  shirts, 
bringing  the  total  up  to  2j.  Then  I  have  about 
a  dozen  black-and-white  shirts;  and  only  seven 
dress-shirts,  I  find.  This  makes  42  in  all.  My 
father  s  theory  was  that  no  gentleman  should 
have  fewer  than  eighty  shirts  to  his  name. 
Times  have  changed;  and  we  are  a  petty  and 
pettyfogging  generation  of  mankind.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  have  JJ  ties,  exclusive  of  ivhite 
ties.  I  feel  almost  sure  that  my  father  did  not 
have  so  many  as  that.  And  I  outdo  him  utterly 
in  boot-trees,  of  which  I  have  just  ordered  a  pair 
to  be  marked  "L8"  and  "RS,"  meaning  thereby 
that  it  is  my  eighth  pair.     Sursum  corda. 

49 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Teixeira  believed  with  almost  complete 
sincerity  that  he  would  die  on  21  April  1917. 
The  origin  of  this  belief  he  never  explained  to 
me;  and  I  do  not  know  whether  he  confided 
it  to  others.  This  accounts  for  the  following 
entry: 

Shall  I  live,  I  wonder,  till  the  22nd,  to  write 
to  you  that  I  am  still  alive?  When  I  allow  my 
thoughts  to  dwell  upon  21.  4.  ij ,  now  but  six 
brief  days  off,  there  rises  to  them  the  memory  of 
the  horrible  Widow's  Song  which  Vesta  Victoria 
used  to  sing.  I  will  start  the  next  page  with  the 
chorus;  for  you,  poor  young  fellow,  know  nothing 
of  the  songs  that  brightened  the  Augustan  age 
of  the  music-halls. 
Read  and  admire: 

He  was  a  good,  kind  husband. 
One  of  the  best  of  men: 

So  fond  of  his  home,  sweet  home. 
He  never,  never  wanted  to  roam. 
There  he  would  sit  by  the  fire-side. 

Such  a  chilly  man  was  John! 
I  hope  and  trust 
There' s  a  nice,  warm  fire 
Where  my  old  man's  gone. 
Gallows-humour ,    my    dear   executor,    gallowS' 
humour! 

50 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

1 6  April. 
Yesterday  being  a  fine  day,  I  have  caught  cold. 
A  had  look-out,  executor,  a  bad  look-out! 
Adieu,  cher  ami. 

You  will  observe  a  brief  hiatus,  he  writes  on 
19  April,  19 17.  A  letter  begun  to  you  on  the 
1 6th  is  reposing  in  my  drawer  at  the  department, 
where  I  have  not  been  since  then,  having  suc- 
cumbed to  an  attack  of  bronchitis.  And  [my 
doctor]  will  not  let  me  out  till  the  2ist  ("der 
Tag!" )  at  the  earliest. 

Der   Tag  was  reached.   .   . 

21  April,  1917. 
It  was  a  comfort  and  a  joy  to  read  this  morn- 
ing that  your  party  has  arrived  safely  at  Halifax. 
I  propose  to  pass  this  bloudie  day  without  any 
cheap  philosophizing.  I  am  about  cured  of  my 
bronchitis,  I  think,  though  fearsomely  weak;  and, 
if  I  "be"  to  "be"  carried  off  to-day,  it'll  be  a 
motor-bus  or  -cab  that'll  do  for  me.  Look  out 
for  a  letter  from  me  dated  to-morrow.  I  hope 
the  voyage  has  done  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world.   .   .   . 

.   .   .   and  survived. 

22  April,  igij. 

Ebbene,   caro   mio   Stefano!     You   will  be   able 

51 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

to  tell  your  grandchildren  that  you  once  knew  a 
man  who  for  twenty  years  was  convinced  that  he 
would  die  on  the  day  when  he  was  fifty-two  years 
and  twelve  days  old  and  who  lived  to  he  fifty-two 
and  thirteen.   .   .   . 

Bottomley  has  turned  against  the  new  govern- 
ment and  is  adumbrating  his  ideal  government. 
He  retains  the  present  foreign  secretary,  hut 
nominates  H.  H.  A.  as  lord  chancellor  and  Sir 
Edward  Holden  as  chancellor  of  the  exchequer. 
He  wants  Beresford  as  minister  of  blockade. 
Oof! 

Robbie  Ross  has  a  story  of  a  German  poet, 
one  Oskar  Schmidt,  ''a  charrjiing  fellow,'^  who, 
armed  with  the  best  letters  of  recommendation, 
went  to  Oxford  and  spent  several  agreeable  weeks 
there.      The  fine  flower  of  his  observations  was: 

"Der  Oxfort  oontercratuades,  dey  go  apout 
between  a  melangolly  and  a  fleg^na."  .   .   . 

24  April,  1917. 
Your  name  appeared  in  the  Times  yesterday; 
and  I  am  now  able  to  read  daily,  or  I  hope,  shall 
be,  how  Mr.  McKenna  bowed,  raised  his  hat  and, 
escorted  by  cavalry,  took  his  first  cocktail  on 
American  soil.  I  do  hope  that  you  are  not  only 
having  the  time  of  your  life  but  feeling  amaz- 
ingly well.     J.  pictures  you  a  victim  of  indiges- 

52 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

tion;    but    I,    knowing    your    justly    celebrated 
strength    of   character,    have    no   fears    on    that 
score.     Cura  ut  valeas. 

4  May,  igiy. 
This  is  a  private-view  day.      The  sun  is  blazing 

truculently.  I  am  wearing  a  new  shirt,  white 
with  black  and  yellow  lines  (the  Teixeira  col- 
ours), and  the  white  hat  and  all's  well  in  God's 
dear  zvorld. 

That     these     sartorial     efforts     were     not 
wasted  is  shewn  by  the  next  entry : 

5  May,  igij. 
.   .  .  From  yesterday's  Star: 

"Society  Sees  the  Pictures 
"The  beautiful  spring  day  induced  one  Beau 
Brummel  to  sport  a  white  box-hat"  ! ! ! 


53 


VII 

In  the  middle  of  May  I  cabled  to  Teixeira 
in  code,  asking  him  to  forward  no  more 
letters;  and  I  did  not  hear  from  him  again 
until  my  return  to  England  in  the  second  week 
of  June. 

As  soon  as  I  was  ready  to  take  his  place,  he 
went  to  Harrogate  for  a  cure  and  remained 
there  for  six  weeks.  For  part  of  the  time  I 
took  his  place  in  another  sense  of  the  phrase. 
At  the  end  of  July  the  Air  Board  command- 
eered my  flat;  and,  until  I  could  find,  dec- 
orate and  furnish  another,  Teixeira  and  his 
wife  most  kindly  placed  their  house  at  my 
disposal.  This  will  explain  the  following 
extract: 

Harrogate:  15  July,  IQIJ- 
Here  is  the  key.  Come  in  when  you  like,  make 
yourself  as  comfortable  as  you  can  and  forgive 
all  deficiencies.  I  feel  a  compunction  at  not  hav- 
ing the  physical  energy  to  "clear"  things  a  bit  for 
you;  but  there  you  are.  .   .   . 

54 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  have  started  ?tiy  cure,  he  writes  on  i8.  7.  17., 
which  promises  to  be  a  most  strenuous,  ar^ 
duous  and  tedious  affair.  I  have  to  take  daily  two 
soda-water  tumblers  of  strong  sulphur  water  and 
tzvo  ordinary  tumblers  of  tvarm  magnesia  water; 
and  on  alternate  days  (a)  a  Nauheim  bath  and 
(b)  a  hot-air  hath.   .   .   . 

It  is  raining  steadily.  This  doesn't  matter. 
But  that  sulphur-water,  on  an  empty  stomach,  at 
S  a.m./  Two-and-tiventy  ounces  of  it,  hot!  The 
stench  of  it!  It  is  said  to  remind  one  of  rotten 
eggs;  hut,  as  I  have  never  smelt  a  rotten  egg,  it 
reminds  me  of  nothing  and  only  suggests  hell.^ 

Sugar  seems  to  have  been  more  scarce  in 
Harrogate  than  in  London;  and  Teixeira's 
appeals  and  contrivances  were  always  pa- 
thetic and  sometimes  frantic. 

My  wife  did  manage  to  get  half  a  pound  of  it 
flung  at  her  head  this  morning,  he  writes  on 
19.  7.  17.  /  had  so  entirely  forgotten  the  essen- 
tial rudeness  of  the  people  of  Yorkshire  that  its 
discovery  came  upon  me  as  an  utter  surp?ise.  I 
amuse  myself  by  overcoming  it  with  smiles. 
Smiles  are  unfamiliar  symptoms  to  them  and  take 
them  aback. 

1  Future  letters  were  dated  from  'Hellgate'. 

ss 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

You  may  tell  Siitro  that  I  have  bought  a  dozen 
silk  collars. 

After  weary  weeks  of  nauseating  treatment, 
he  writes : 

It  will  he  an  awful  sell  if  this  cure  ends  without 
doing  me  good.  Still  I  always  hope.  Whatever 
happens  I  shall  want  at  least  a  week's  after-cure 
zuhich  I  should  probably  take  here:  simply  a  rest 
and  air,  without  any  waters  or  baths.  But  what 
is  your  Cornish  date? 

I  replied,  27.  7.  17. 

By  this  time  you  will  have  seen  that  our  minds 
have  been  working  on  parallel  lines  towards  the 
same  conclusion  that  an  after-cure  is  quite  essen- 
tial. It  will  suit  me  perfectly  well  to  stay  here 
until,  and  including,  Friday  the  24th,  or  later  if 
you  like.  My  Cornish  arrangements  are  quite 
fluid.   .   .   . 

For  all  your  pagan  pose,  he  writes,  you  are  a 
fine  old  Irish  Christian  gentleman,  as  is  proved 
by  your  suggestion  of  an  after-cure,  dictated  no 
doubt  at  the  identical  moment  when  I  was  writ- 
ing my  answer  to  it.  At  any  rate,  I  prefer  to 
think  of  you  as  a  Christian  brother  rather  than 
as  a  Corsican  brother.  As  I  said,  I  shall  prob- 
ably take  that  after-cure,  but  take  it  at  Harro- 

56 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

gate,  which  is  about  as  bracing  a  spot  as  any  in 
the  three  kingdoms.  To  go  straight  to  the  sea 
might  set  up  my  rheumatism  again,  if  indeed  it 
is  suppressed;  there  is  no  sign  yet  of  that  desid- 
erandum.   .  .   . 

It  is  necessary  to  insert  my  letter  of  30.  7.  17 
in  order  to  explain  Teixeira's  reply  to  it. 

/  went  home  for  the  week-end,  I  wrote,  and 
travelled  up  this  morning  with  C.  H.  C.  has  a 
new  and  most  amusing  game.  It  consists  of  in- 
viting people  to  stay  with  him  for  the  week-end 
and  encouraging  them  to  bathe  in  the  river 
Thames  and  only  disclosing,  when  the  damage 
has  been  done,  that  the  bed  of  that  ancient  river 
is  richly  studded  with  broken  bottles.  There 
was  a  small  boy  in  the  carriage  with  one  badly 
injured  foot  as  a  result  of  C.'s  pleasantry.  I  did 
a  conspicuous  St.  Christopher  stunt  and  carried 
the  boy  on  my  shoulders  the  entire  length  of  the 
arrival  platform  at  Paddington.   .   .   . 

I,  Teixeira  answers,  30.  7.  17,  once  carried 
Willie  Crosthwait,  then  aged  14,  the  whole 
length  of  the  Euston  departure  platform.  That 
beats  you  (and  perhaps  caused  the  best  part  of  my 
present  troubles).  He  is  now  an  army  chaplain; 
and  I  sit  moaning  at  Harrogate. 

57 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 
Ululu  ! 

My  eviction  took  place  in  the  first  week  of 
August;  and  on  3.  8.  17  I  wrote  to  Teixeira: 

/  am  thinking  of  moving  to  Chelsea  on  Tues- 
day. .  .  .  You  may  remeitiber  a  story  of  Ben- 
jamin Jowett  in  connection  with  two  undergrad- 
uates who  persisted  in  staying  up  at  BallioL 
throughout  the  Long  Vacation.  Jowett,  by  way 
of  gently  dislodging  them,  insisted  first  that  they 
should  attend  Chapel  daily.  The  undergraduates 
grumbled,  but  obeyed.  Jowett,  seeing  that  his 
first  attack  had  failed,  arranged  with  the  kitchen 
authorities  that  the  food  served  to  these  recalcit- 
rant young  scholars  should  be  entirely  uneat- 
able, and  in  the  course  of  time  their  spirit  was 
so  much  broken  that  they  left  him  and  Balliol  in 
peace.  He  is  reported  to  have  said,  as  he 
watched  them  driving  down  to  the  station: 
"That  sort  goeth  not  forth  but  by  prayer  and 
fasting."  So  with  me.  J  have  manfully  with- 
stood the  stahvart  labourers  zvho  break  walls 
down  all  round  me  throughout  the  night;  but, 
when  the  porters  are  paid  off,  the  maids  deprived 
of  their  rooms,  the  hot-water  supply  disconnected 
and  the  gas  cut  of  at  the  main,  I  feel  that  I  may 
retire  with  dignity  and  the  full  honours  of 
war.   .  .   . 

58 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Make  yourself  as  comfortable  in  Chelsea  as 
you  can,  he  answered  on  4.  8.  17.  As  at  present 
advised,  we  return  on  JVednesday  fortnight,  the 
22nd.   .   .   . 

The  days  here  speed  past  on  wings,  thanks  to 
their  monotony.  Waters  at  8;  again  at  lO.^o; 
a  bath  or  baths  at  11;  lunch  at  i.^o;  a  jog-trot 
drive  from  j  to  4;  bridge;  dinner  at  7.J0;  mas- 
sage at  g;  all  this  with  unfailing  regularity.  1 
believe  far  more  in  my  masseuse  (she  lives  at  this 
house)  than  in  my  doctor.  It  will  amuse  your 
father  to  hear  that  this  genius  is  prescribing  for 
me  in  the  matter  of  rheumatism,  neuritis  and 
fjbrositis  in  the  arm  without  having  once  had  my 
shirt  off/  I  make  suggestions,  at  the  instance  of 
the  masseuse,  and  he  promptly  annexes  them  as 
his  own: 

''Tell  me,  doctor,  may  I  do  so-and-so?" 

"You  are  to  do  so-and-so;  and  this  very  day!" 

The  doctors  here  generally  have  the  very 
worst  name;  but  there  is  nobody  to  pull  them  up 
or  show  them  up. 

The  place  teems  with  people  zvhoni  I  know  and 
don't  want  to  see. 

The  rain  it  raineth  every  day  and  all  day.   .   .   . 

My  cure  is  now  over,  he  writes  on  12.  8.  17; 
it  has  been  long  and  costly;  it  has  done  me  no 

59 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

good  at  all.  hideed  viy  main  affliction  is  worse; 
certain  movements  of  the  right  arm  which  zvere 
possible  zuith  comparative  ease  before  I  came 
down  are  now  nearly  impossible.  On  Saturday, 
at  the  final  consultation,  when  I  took  leave  of  my 
doctor  and  paid  him  five  guineas,  he  told  me  for 
the  first  time  that  I  have  no  neuritis  but  that  I 
have  bursitis.  All  the  while,  mark  you,  he  has 
been  treating  me  for  fibrositis.  It  is  a  consola- 
tion to  know,  however,  that  I  have  no  arthritis. 
fVhat  I  have  been  having  is  what  the  vulgar 
would  call  a  hi-tiddlyhitis  high  old  time.   .   .   . 

A  week  later  I  went  again  to  Cornwall  on 
leave. 

Do  devote  yourself,  wrote  Teixeira,  25.  8.  17, 
at  any  rate  for  the  first  ten  days  of  your 
absence,  to  becoming  very  well  and  strong.  I 
have  never  seen  you  quite  so  ill  as  yesterday  and  I 
was  infinitely  distressed  about  it.  Treat  yourself 
as  though  you  were  an  exceedingly  old  man  like 
me.  Then  when  you  have  entered  upon  your 
rejuvenescence  you  can  begin  to  play  pranks  with 
yourself  again.   .   .   . 

Later  he  added : 

Be  careful  not  to  honour  the  Atlantic  with 
more  than  one  immersion  a  day.   .   .   . 

60 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

And,  30.  8.  17.  /  am  exceedingly  busy,  but 
I  am  enjoying  it  all.  My  health  is  as  bad  as  ever 
and  I  have  recovered  my  famous  lead-poisoning 
hue.  I  expect  you,  however,  to  return  with  the 
bloom  of  roses  and  the  stains  of  coffee  on  your 
cheeks.  So  make  up  your  mind  to  sleep  and  do 
it.   .   .   . 

In  the  first  week  of  September  there  began 
the  most  persistent  series  of  air-raids  that  oc- 
curred at  any  stage  during  the  war. 

Last  night,  Teixeira  writes,  5.9.  17,  was 
made  hideous  by  a  pack  of  confounded  Germans 
zvho  came  over  London  and  created  no  end  of  a 
din.  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  saw  one  shell 
burst  in  a  south-easterly  direction,  debated 
whether  to  go  below  or  remain  in  bed  and  re- 
mained in  bed. 

[My  cook],  from  her  basement,    appears  to 
have  obtained  a  much  clearer  aural  view: 

'^Didn't  you  hear  them  two  raiders  firing 
bom-m-ms  at  each  other,  sir?" 

There  spoke  your  Sinn  Feiner:  they  were  both 
raiders  to  her.  The  row  lasted  for  over  two 
hours;  and  I  feel  an  utter  wreck.  Lord  knows 
what  mischief  the  brutes  have  done  this  time. 

Vale  et  nos  ama. 

61 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Next  day,  in  a  letter  dated,  City  of  Dread- 
ful Nights,  he  adds: 

Last  night  no  air-raid  was  possible,  because  of 
an  appalling  thunderstorm,  zvhich  kept  me  awake 
for  another  three  hours.  If  you  have  tver  heard 
thunder  rolling  for  fifty  seconds  imtKmit  inter- 
cession and  giving  sixty  of  these  roUs  to  the 
hour,  you  will  know  the  sort  of  thundy^rstorm  it 


was. 


This  description  prompts  him  to  an  anec- 
dote: 

"Then  there's  Roche,  the  resident  magistrate. 
Don't  go  shooting  Roche  now  .  .  .  unless  it's  by 
accident.  What  does  he  look  like?  Well,  if 
ye've  ever  seen  a  half-drowned  rat,  with  a  grey 
worsted  muffler  round  its  neck,  then  ye  knozv  the 
kind  of  man  Roche  is!" — Speech  quoted  before 
the  Parnell  Commission. 

On  my  return  from  Cornwall,  my  flat  was 
not  yet  ready  for  me,  but  the  Teixeiras'  hos- 
pitality allowed  me  to  continue  staying  with 
them. 

You  zvill  be  as  welcome  on  Thursday  night  as 
peace   at   Christmas,  wrote   Teixeira,    9.    9.    17. 

62 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

[My  cook]  is  azvay  on  a  holiday  and  there  is  a 
possibility  that  she  will  not  he  hack  by  then;  and 
in  the  meantime  there  is  nobody  else.  You  may, 
therefore,  have  to  submit  to  a  modicum  of  dis- 
comfort: .  .  .  your  boots  will  probably  have  to 
accumulate  to  some  extent  before  they  are  cleaned 
on  the  larger  scale.  You  have  so  many  boots, 
however,  that  I  venture  to  hope  that  this  zvill 
not  incommode  you  unduly. 

This  welcome  was  seasoned  later  by  a  story 
which  Teixeira  invented,  describing  his 
efforts  to  dislodge  me.  According  to  this,  he 
used  to  fall  resonantly  from  his  bedroom  to  his 
study  at  5.0  each  morning  and,  if  this  failed  to 
rouse  me,  he  would  mount  the  stairs  again 
and  continue  to  throw  himself  down  until  I 
waked.  At  6.0  a  cup  of  tea  would  be  brought 
me;  at  7.0  the  morning  paper;  at  8.0  my 
letters.  When  I  went  to  my  bath  at  8.30, 
Teixeira  used  to  assert  that  he  flung  my 
clothes  into  a  suit-case,  tiptoed  downstairs 
and  laid  the  case  on  the  doorstep.  His  tactics 
failed  because  I  only  waited  until  he  was 
locked  in  the  bathroom  before  creeping  down 
and  retrieving  the  case. 

As  our  leave  was  over  for  the  year,  there 

63 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

was  no  further  exchange  of  letters  save  when 
one  or  other  was  absent  from  our  depart- 
ment. 

/  have  read  the  new  Maeterlinck  play  ^ — a 
good  theme  infamously  treated,  I  find  myself 
writing,  27.  12.  18.  /  beg  you  to  scrap  the 
third  act  and  with  it  your  regard  for  M's  feel- 
ings; then  rewrite  it  with  a  little  passion,  a  great 
deal  of  fear  and  unlimited  un-understanditig 
horror.  The  invasion  of  Belgium  wasn't  a 
Greek  tragedy  where  the  afflicted  prosed  and 
philosophised — with  a  chorus  dilating  on  cattle- 
yas ;  it  was  noisy,  bloody  and,  above  all,  unbeliev- 
able. Maeterlinck  has  brought  no  nightmare 
into  it.   .   .   . 

Letter  just  received,  he  replied  next  day. 
You  are  a  highly  illuminated  and  illuminating 
critick.  Your  remarks  upon  that  play  are  ex- 
actly right  (as  I  now  know,  having  just  read  my 
first  three  Greek  plays).   .   .   . 

/  enclose,  he  writes  10.  8.  18,  i  ;)4  chapters 
of  the  Couperus  classical  comedy-novel  [The 
Tour],  which  I  amused  myself  by  doing  because 
you  insisted  so  emphatically  that  the  book  should 

1  The  Burgomaster  of  Stillemonde. 

64 


Alexander  Tetxeira  de  Mattos 

be  done.  But  I  will  go  no  further  till  I  have 
your  verdict.  Don't  trouble  to  do  any  work  on 
this;  the  7narginal  refs.  were  merely  inserted  as 
I  went  along.  Just  see  if  the  thing  is  the  sort  of 
thing  that's  likely  to  take  on;  and  talk  to  me 
about  it  when  you  see  me.   .   .   . 


65 


IX 

In  1918  Teixeira's  health  had  so  much  im- 
proved that  he  was  able  to  dispense  with  all 
violent  and  disabling  cures. 

This  was  the  period  when  he  was,  socially, 
in  greatest  request.  I  introduced  him,  in  the 
spring,  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Asquith,  who  shewed 
him  much  hospitality  and  great  kindness 
from  this  time  until,  his  death.  His  leaves 
were  now  usually  spent  with  them  at  Sutton 
Courtney;  but,  since  he  required  to  take  little 
or  no  sick-leave,  the  number  of  letters  ex- 
changed in  this  year  is  small. 

At  the  armistice,  he  left  the  Intelligence 
Section  to  become  secretary  to  the  depart- 
ment; and,  though  we  worked  in  the  same 
building  for  two  or  three  months  more,  I 
naturally  saw  less  of  him  than  when  we  shared 
the  same  table.  The  last,communication  that 
passed  between  us  as  colleagues,  like  the  first, 
written  three  years  before,  contained  an  invi- 
tation. Its  form  must  be  explained  by  refer- 
ence   to    Stevenson's    and    Osborne's    Wrong 

66 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Box.  Rudyard  Kipling  has  mentioned,  in 
A  Diversity  of  Creatures,  the  sublime  brother- 
hood to  whom  this  book  is  a  second  Bi- 
ble. 

"I  remembered,"  [he  writes  in  The  Vortex'], 
"a  certain  Joseph  Finsbury  who  delighted  the 
Tregonwell  Arms  .  .  .  with  nine  .  ,  .  versions 
of  a  single  income  of  two  hundred  pounds,  plac- 
ing the  imaginary  person  in — but  I  could  not 
recall  the  list  of  towns  further  than  'London, 
Paris,  Bagdad,  and  Spitzbergen.'  This  last  I 
must  have  murmured  aloud,  for  the  Agent-Gen- 
eral suddenly  became  human  and  went  on :  'Bus- 
soran,  Heligoland,  and  the  Scilly  Islands' — 
'What?'  growled  Penfentenyou.  'Nothing,'  said 
the  Agent-General,  squeezing  my  hand  affection- 
ately, 'Only  we  have  just  found  out  that  we 
are  brothers.  .  .  .  Fve  got  it.  'Brighton,  Cin- 
cinnati and  Nijni-Novgorod!'  God  bless 
R.  L.  s.^  .  .  ."  One  of  the  greatest  living  author- 
ities on  The  Wrong  Box  was  a  member  of  the 
Reform  Club;  and,  on  joining,  Teixeira  found  it 
necessary  to  his  self-protection  to  study  the  most 
aptly-quoted  work  in  the  world. 

My  invitation  was  couched  in  the  cryptic  terms 
of  the  brotherhood: 

1  Frank  MacKinnon  K.  C. 

67 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

MATTOS.  Alexander  William  de  Bent 
Teixeira,  if  this  should  meet 
the  eye  of,  he  will  hear 
something  to  his  advantage 
by  lunching  zvith  me  to-day 
at  the  far  end  of  JVatcrloo 
Station  (Departure  Plat- 
form) or  even  at  Lincoln's 
Inn. 
War  Trade  Intelligence  Department. 
SO  December,  igi8. 

On  leaving  the  department  early  in  1919,  I 
saw  and  heard  little,  of  Teixeira  until  he  in- 
vited me  to  collaborate  in  the  translation 
of  The  Tour.  Occasional  divergencies  of 
opinion  about  translating  Latin  words  in  the 
English  rendering  of  a  Dutch  novel  had  the 
very  desirable  result  of  making  Teixeira  set 
out  some  few  of  the  principles  which  he  fol- 
lowed. 

Couperus  sends  me  this  postcard,  he  writes, 
29.  4.  18  : 

"Amice, 

''You  are  of  course  at  liberty  to  act  according 
to  your  taste  and  judgement.  I  do  not  however 
understand  the  thing:  in  every  novel  treating  of 

68 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

antiquity  the  classical  word  sometimes  gives  a 
nuance  to  the  untranslatable  local  colour.  And 
every  novelist  feels  this:  See  Quo  Vadis,  in 
Jeremiah  Curtius'  translation.  However,  do  as 
you  think  proper. 

1  ours, 
"L.  C." 

He  has  us  on  the  hip  with  his  Jeremiah  Curtius. 
And  I  feel  more  than  ever  that  you  were  too  dras- 
tic in  your  views  and  I  too  weak  in  yielding  to 
them.   .   .   . 

We  should  always  guard  ourselves  against  the 
bees  in  our  bonnets.  JVhen  I  produced  Zola's 
Heirs  of  Rabourdin,  the  stage-manager  said  his 
play-actors  couldn't  pronounce  Monsieur,  Ma- 
dame and  Mademoiselle  to  his  liking:  might  he 
try  how  it  would  sound  with  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss 
Rabourdinf     He  tried! 

If  your  principle  were  carried  to  any  length, 
you  would  have  to  call  a  pagoda  a  tozver,  a  jin- 
rickshaw a  buggy,  a  cafe  a  cofee-house,  a  gen- 
darme a  policeman  (i.e.  a  sergent-de-villej,  a 
toga  a  cloak,  a  gondola  a  wherry,  an  Alpenstock 
an  Alpine  stick,  a  ski  a  snowshoe:  one  could  go 
on  for  ever! 

Yet  I  am  ever  yours, 
Tex. 

69 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

In  the  spring  and  summer  of  1919  our 
letters  became  more  frequent.  Though  Teix- 
eira spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  department,  I 
employed  the  first  months  of  liberation  in 
staying  with  friends.  The  translation  of  The 
Tour  went  on  apace;,  and  arrangements  were 
made  for  the  English  publication  of  Old 
People  and  the  Things  That  Pass.  If  he  had 
given  his  readers  no  other  book  by  Couperus 
or  by  any^  other  writer,  he  would  still  have 
established  two  reputations  with  this. 

It's  a  funny  thing,  he  writes,  21.  5.  ig;  4:  S7 
a.  m..;  but  I  find  that  I  can  no  longer  trs.  Latin, 
even  with  a  dictionary.  I  suppose  it's  because 
I  can't  construe  it.  Would  you  mind  putting  a 
line-and-a-bit  of  Ovid  into  English  for  me? 
Here  it  is: 

Materian  superabat  opus,  nam  Mulciber  illic 
i^^quora  celarat. 

.  .  .  My  intentions  are  to  go  down  to  I.  for 
5  or  6  days  on  the  ^th  of  June  and  to  join  my 
wife  at  Bexhill  on  or  about  the  i8th  for  3  or  4 
weeks. 

"Bexhill-on-Sea 

Is  the  haven  for  me," 

70 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

sang  Clement  Scott  in  a  visitors' -book  discovered 
by  Max  Beerbohm,  ivho  tore  him  to  pieces  for 
it  in  the  Saturday,  in  an  article  signed  "Max." 
Scott,  pretending  not  to  know  who  Max  was, 
flew  to  the  Era  and  wrote  his  famous  absurdity, 
"Come  out  of  your  hole,  rat!"  Gad,  how  we 
used  to  laugh  in  those  days!  .   .  . 

My  reply  began: 

/  resent  your  practice  of  heading  your  letters 
with  the  unseemly  time  at  which  you  leave  a  warm 
and  comfortable  bed.  And  I  dated  my  own:  22 
May,  igig.  Cocktail-time.  What  would  you 
think  of  me  if  I  headed  my  letters  with  the  equally 
unseemly  time  at  which  I  sometitnes  go  to  bed? 
I  have  been  working  so  late  one  or  two  nights  last 
week  and  this  that  the  times  would  coincide,  and 
you  might  bid  me  good-morning  as  I  bade  you 
good-night.   .   .   . 

I  went  .  .  .  to  a  musical  party.  .  .  .  I  felt 
that  it  was  incumbent  upon  me  to  see  zvhether 
you  had  done  anything  in  the  matter  of  the  Bel- 
gian quartette.^  You  will  be  shocked  to  hear 
that  the  quartette  is  not  only  still  in  existence,  bul 

1  A  short  time  before,  Teixeira,  who  affected  a  loathing  for 
music,  had  been  invited  to  hear  the  same  quartette.  Abandoning 
his  usual  gentleness  of  speech  and  spirit,  he  had  accepted  on 
condition  of  being   allowed  to  massacre  the  quartette. 

71 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

has    added   a    supernumerary    to    turn    over    the 
music  of  the  pianist.   .  .  . 

On  7.  6.  19,  he  wrote  from  Somersetshire:  You 
are — it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  you  must  be — a 
secret  autograph-hunter.  Here  am  I,  hoping  to 
do  nothing  but  sleep  26  hours  out  of  the  24,  to 
do  nothing  ever,  to  the  great  ever;  and  here 
come  you,  hoping  for  a  letter,  lest  you  be  pained. 
A  scripsomaniac,  my  poor  Stephen,  a  scripsoman- 
iac  you  will  surely  be,  if  you  do  not  check  your- 
self in  time. 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes!  I  know  that  I  am  Satan 
rebuking  sin;  but  was  Satan  ever  better  employed? 
Far  rather  would  I  see  him  rebuking  sin  than 
prompting  letters  for  idle   hands  to   write. 

Well,  I  know  that  I  am  staying  in  Somerset- 
shire with  I.,  who  is  at  this  moment  speeding  to- 
wards the  Hotel  du  Vieux  Doelen  at  the  Hague, 
to  nurse  a  sick  friend.  Ker  pongsay  voo  der 
sahf  And  J  am  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  petted 
and  coddled  by  his  delightful  mother,  lolling 
from  the  morning  unto  the  evening  in  the  open 
air  and  doing  not  one  stroke  of  work.  And  ut- 
terly at  my  ease,  not  even  blushing  zvJien  ??iy 
brother  cuckoo  mocks  me  from  the  tree-top,  as  he 
does  sixty  times  to  the  minute. 

72 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  return  on  the  I2th;  on  the  i ph  I  go  cuckoo- 
ing at  the  IFharf,  returning  on  the  i6lh;  .  .  . 
on  the  i8lh  I  join  my  wife  at  Bexhill;  how,  I 
ask  you,  can  I  come  a-cuckooing  in  Lincoln's  Inn? 

Nor  do  see  any  chance  of  touching  The  Tour 
while  I  am  here.  I  am  really  too  busy  to  do 
aught  hut  play  the  sedulous  cuckoo  in  Cockayne. 
So  let  my  visit  to  you  be  a  pleasure  (to  both  of 
us)   postponed.  .  .  . 

To  this  I  replied,  14.  7.  19:  I  lunched  yester- 
day with  one  Butterworth,  ivho  is  opening  up  a 
publisher's  business.  In  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion I  mentioned  to  him  your  translation  of  Old 
People  and  the  Things  that  Pass.  More  than 
that,  I  took  upon  myself  to  lend  him  my  copy  of 
the  American  edition  so  that  he  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  forming  his  own  opinion  of  it. 
You  may,  if  you  like,  call  me  interfering  and  pre- 
sumptuous, but  I  have  not  committed  you  in  any 
way  to  anything,  and  yesterday's  transaction  may 
he  regarded  as  no  more  than  the  loan  of  a  book 
from  one  person  to  another.  I,  as  you  know, 
feel  it  a  reproach  that  that  book  is  still  unpub- 
lished in  England,  and,  if  Butterworth  thinks  fit 
to  make  you  a  good  offer,  no  one  will  he  better 
pleased  than  me.  .  .  . 

73 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

On  26.7.19  he  wrote  from  Bexhill:  //  it 
comes  on  to  rain  as  it  threatens  daily,  I  shall  he 
returning  The  Tour  to  you  quite  soon;  and  in  any 
case  it  will  go  hack  to  you  before  I  leave  here  on 
the  i^th  of  July:  I  must  reduce  the  weight  of 
my  luggage;  I  had  to  run  all  over  the  town  to 
find  two  stalwart  ruffians  to  carry  it  to  the  attic 
where  I  sleep. 

You  need  not  look  at  it  before  we  meet  unless 
you  wish;  but  you  may  like  to  do  Coras  song  ^ 
in  your  sleep  meanwhile;  and  my  additional  com- 
ments and  queries  are  few. 

I  am  leading  here  that  methodical  humdrum 
life  which  alone  makes  time  fly.  When  I  return 
to  town  you  shall  see  me  occasionally  at  the  opera, 
but  not  oftener  than  twice  a  week.  You  will 
have  to  look  for  me,  however,  for  I  shall  be  stalk- 
ing behind  pillars,  cloaked  in  black,  like  Lucien 
de  What' s-his-name,  hiding  from  my  black  beast, 
Lady.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  Can  you  tell  me  if  Beecham  intends  to 
do  any  light  operas  at  Drury  Lane  in  addition  to 
that  tinkly,  overrated  FlUe  de  Madame  Angot? 
/  am  dying  to  hear  the  whole  Offenbach  series 
before  I  die. 

A    letter     from     Bexhill,     dated     2.  7.  19, 

1  Hymn  to  Aphrodite. 

74 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

touches  on  one    general    principle    of    trans- 
lating: 

.  .  .  fVith  all  deference,  a  translator's  first 
duty  is  not  to  translate.  His  first  duly  is  to  love 
God,  honour  the  king  and  hate  the  Germans. 
His  next  duty  is  to  produce  a  version  correspond- 
ing as  near  as  may  be  with  what  an  English  or- 
iginal writer,  if  he  were  writing  that  particular 
hook,  would  set  down.  His  last  duty  is  to  trans- 
late every  blessed  word  of  the  original.   .   .   . 

Next  day  he  wrote : 

T.  B.  [Thornton  Butterworth]  is  taking  "O. 
P."  [Old  People]  and  coming  down  here  to  see 
me  on  Saturday. 

Ever  so  many  thanks  for  your  generous  offices 
in  the  matter.   .   .   . 

On  Peace  Day,  in  a  letter  dated  from  Fins- 
bury  Circus,  Teixeira  writes: 

Here  sit  I,  putting  in  four  or  five  hours  before 
a  train  leaves  to  take  me  to  Herbert  George  and 
Jane  Wells  at  Easton  Glebe  and  reading  Quo 
Vadis.  Already,  in  gg  pages,  I  have  discovered 
21  expressions  which  you  would  undoubtedly 
have  condemned  in  The  Tour. 

75 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

.  .  .  This  is  interesting:  [the  author]  says 
that  in  Nero's  day  it  was  already  becoming  a 
stunt  among  the  Romans  to  call  the  gods  by  their 
Greek  Names.  Tiberius  was  not  so  much  earlier 
— was  he? — than  Nero  that  the  practice  might 
not  haie  begun  even  then.  If  so,  we  can  let 
Couperus  have  his  way  and  retain  those  few 
names.  They  are  very  few,  I  think.  I  can  re- 
member at  the  moment  only  Aphrodite  and  Zeus 
and  possibly  Eros.  It  may  be  that  Juno  is  men- 
tioned as  Hera,  but  I  doubt  it. 

There  is  a  charming  garden,  with  a  most  beau- 
tifully kept  lawn.  The  flowers  .  .  .  consist 
entirely  of  the  only  three  that  I  dislike:  fuchsias, 
begotiias  and  red  geraniums. 

Still  .  .  . 

I  hope  that  you  are  spending  the  day  as  peace- 
fully and  that  this  will  find  you  well  and 
happy.  ... 

Two  east-end  Jews  within  hail  of  me  are  talk- 
ing Yiddish  and  sharing  a  Daily  Snail  between 
them.  There  is  a  cat.  There  is  or  am  I.  And 
there  are  those  fuchsias. 

On  i8.  8.  19,  I  wrote: 

The  North  of  Ireland  seems  beating  up  for  a 
storm,  does  not  it?  I  suppose  there  is  no  point 
in   my  reminding  you   that  a  perfect  gentleman 

76 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  M altos 

would  not  fail  to  present  himself  at  Etiston  next 
Friday  at  8.10  p.  in.  to  luck  me  into  my  sleeper 
and  see  me  safely  offf  My  address  in  Ireland 
from  Aug.  2jrd  to  ^ist  is  (in  the  care  of  Sir  John 
Leslie^  Baronet)  Glaslough,  Co.  Monaghan.   .   .  . 

At  8.10  on  Friday,  he  replied,  20.  8.  19, 
this  perfect  gentleman  will  be  eating  his  melon 
at  Hunlercombe  Manor  House,  Henley-on- 
Thames  (in  the  care  of  Squire  Nevile  Foster), 
but  for  which  he  would  undoubtedly  come  to  see 
you  oft  in  the  stilly  night.  I  zvish  you  safely 
through  the  war-zone,  happy  and  interested  in 
this,  your  first  visit  to  Ireland  and  prosperously 
home  again.  Now  do  not  write  and  answer  that 
you  have  paid  eighteen  visits  to  Ireland  before: 
those  eighteen  visits  have  always  been  and  always 
will  be  to  my  mind  as  mythical  as  the  travels  of 
Mungo  Park  or  Mendes  Pinto.   .  .   . 

Feeling  that  I  must  acquaint  Teixeira  with 
my  safe  arrival  in  Ireland,  I  wrote,  28.  8.  19: 

Glaslough, 
Co.  Monaghan. 
.  .  .  I  am  here;  yes,  but  how  did  I  get  here? 
I  am  here;  yes,  but  shall  I  ever  get  away?  I 
left  London  on  Friday  with  my  young  and  very 
lovely  charge,  encountered  engine-trouble  and 
reached  Holyhead  an  hour  late.     I  sat  on   the 

77 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

boat-deck  with  her  (but  without  an  overcoat), 
watcJujig  the  dawn  until  I  was  chilled  to  the 
marrow  and  any  other  man  would  have  been 
delirious  with  pneumonia.  The  breakfast-car 
train  had  left,  so  we  took  a  later  one  from  Dub- 
lin. Being  faced  with  the  prospect  of  waiting 
2Y2  hours  at  Clones,  I  got  out  at  Drogheda  to 
send  a  telegram  to  the  Leslies,  begging  them  to 
meet  us  there  by  car.  Unhappily,  the  train  went 
on  without  me,  bearing  away  my  young  and  very 
lovely  charge,  my  suit-case,  my  despatch-box,  my 
umbrella  and  my  hat.  I  was  left  with  a  pair  of 
gloves  and  my  charge's  ticket.  .  .  .  I  bought 
myself  a  cap  of  4/6  and  a  clean  collar  for 
/ 4d,  and  spent  the  day  writing  letters,  contriving 
epigrams  and  lunching  off  scrambled  eggs  and 
Irish  whiskey. 

I  have  been  taken  to  the  McKenna  grave  at 
Donagh  and  presented — by  Shane — to  the  clan 
as  its  head,  which  I  am  not.  The  recognition  of 
Odysseus  by  his  old  nurse  zvas  eclipsed  by  the 
recognition  accorded  me  by  an  old  woman  who 
remembered — unpro7npted — my  coming  to  Glas- 
lough  twelve  years  ago  and  thanked  God  that  she 
had  been  spared  to  see  me  again.  It  is  a  very 
lovely  place  that  the  Leslies  have  taken  from  us. 

But  how  to  leave  it?  It  is  Horse  Show  week, 
and   every   sleeper   has   been   booked  for   three 

78 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

weeks.  I  shall  have  to  cross  from  Belfast  to 
Liverpool,  I  think,  and  try  to  get  my  sleeping 
done  on  the  boat.  And  that  means  that  I  shall 
not  he  home  till  Tuesday.     Can't  be  helped. 

On  31.  8.  19  Teixeira  wrote  to  greet  me  on 
my  return  from  Ireland: 

After  your  preliminary  wanderings,  my  dear 
Stephen  O'Dysseus,  welcome  home  again!  You 
were  always  the  worst  courier  in  the  world;  I've 
not  ever  known  you  to  bring  one  of  your  young 
and  very  lovely  charges  to  her  destination  with- 
out encountering  cataclysmal  adventures  on  the 
road.  .  .  .  Still,  would  that  I  had  known  that 
you  can  buy  collars,  clean  and  therefore  presum- 
ably new  collars,  at  Drogheda  for  fourpence 
apiece.  Yesterday  I  paid  fifteen  shillings  for  a 
dozen.   .   .   . 

On  21.  12.  19  he  writes  to  offer  me  good 
wishes  for  Christmas: 

The  one  and  only  thing  that  the  Fortunate 
Youth  appeared  to  me  not  to  possess  will  reach 
you  in  a  little  registered  packet  to-morrow  eve- 
ning. .  .  .  You  are  to  accept  it  as  a  token  of  the 
Jiappiness  which  I  wish  you  during  this  Christ- 
mas and  the  whole  of  the  coming  year. 

79 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

That  was  a  very  jolly  party  on  JFednesday: 
I  enjoyed  everything:  the  gay  and  kindly  com- 
pany, the  admirable  foodstuffs,  even  the  music; 
and,  if  it  he  true,  as  I  told  you,  that  Covent 
Garden  has  shrunk  in  size  since  my  young  days, 
I  am  compelled  to  confess  that  your  box  was  a 
larger  than  I  ever  saw  before. 

At  this  season  of  excess,  he  writes  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  /  am  allowed  to  indulge  my  passion 
for  chocolates,  but  not  to  buy  any  for  myself; 
and  it  was  most  though ful  of  you  to  pander  to 
my  taste.  Thank  you  ever  so  much.  And  thank 
you  also  for  your  good  wishes.   .   .   . 

I  must  be  off  to  mass,  but  not  without  first 
begging  you  to  hand  your  mother  and  sister  my 
best  wishes  for  a  happy  New  Year.  As  to  you, 
I  shall  see  or  talk  to  you  before  then.  .  .  . 
My  young  Sinn  Feiner  has  written  a  novel  ^ 
which  to  my  mind  is  a  most  remarkable  produc- 
tion and  which  will  have  to  be  read  by  you  at  all 
costs.  It  is  published  in  Dublin;  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  a  single  other  copy  will  find  its  way 
to   this  foreign  land. 

In  April  Teixeira  and  his  wife  went  to 
Hove:  and  on  27.  4.  20  he  writes: 

//  is  blowing  what-you-may-call-it  here:  'arf  a 

1  Eimar  O'Duffy's  Wasted  Island. 

80 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

mo',  'arf  a  brick,  half  a  gale.     Apart  from  that, 
we  are  well  and  send  oiir  love. 

Commenting  on  a  house-party  which  I  had 
described,  he  adds: 

Jll  we  can  do,  my  dear  Stephen,  is  to  ask  you 
to  remember  the  old  adage: 

Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together; 
and  the  modern  variants: 

Birds  of  a  beak  meet  twice  a  week; 
Birds  of  a  voice  share  a  Rolls-Royce; 
Birds  of  a  kidney  are  Alf  and  Sydney; 
Birds  of  a  tail  are  hail-f ellow-hail ; 
Birds  of  a  crest  are  twins  of  the  best; 
Birds  of  a  gizzard  are  witch  and  wizzard; 
Birds  of  a  chirrup  are  treacle  and  syrup; 
The  hawk  and  the  owl  sit  cheek  by  jowl. 

Yours  ever, 
Alexander  and  Lily   Tex. 

The  next  letter  was  from  his  wife  and 
brought  the  news  that  Teixeira's  health  had 
taken  an  unexpected  turn  for  the  worse.  His 
life  was  not  in  immediate  danger,  but  hence- 
forward he  must  regard  himself  as  an  invalid 
and  must  work  under  the  conditions  imposed 
by  his  doctor. 

8i 


X 


As  soon  as  he  was  well  enough  to  be  moved, 
Teixeira  came  up  from  Hove  and,  after  a 
few  days  in  Chelsea,  went  to  a  nursing-home 
in  Crowborough  for  the  summer. 

Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  him  than 
that  the  first  message  he  sent  after  the  be- 
ginning of  his  illness  was  one  of  reassurance 
and  optimism: 

Sent  you  a  wire  this  morning,  he  writes,  lest 
you  be  seriously  distressed.  Really  much  better 
after  nine  hours'  sleep.  .  .  .  I  expect  I  shall  be 
quite  well  by  Saturday,  when  we  return  but  I 
shall   have   to   be  jolly   careful.  .  .   . 

Thanks  for  your  letters,  he  writes,  8.  5.  20, 
when  we  were  arranging  to  meet.  Nothing  you 
can  do  for  me  at  present  except  converse  with 
me  in  the  form  of:  Tex.  Very  short  questions: 
Stephen.  Very  long  answers.  Tm  getting 
plaguily  impatient  at  the  slowness  of  my  recovery: 
it's  very  wrong,  wicked  and  impatient  of  me. 

I   enclose. 

82 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

A.  Two  lines  from  your  favourite  "poet" 
(save  the  Mark  Tapley) ! 

B.  Some  wedding-elusions  which  remind  me 
that  Burne-Jones,  when  they  told  him  that  mar- 
riage zvas  a  lottery,  said: 

"Then  it  ought  to  be  made  illegal. 


>} 


While  undergoing  his  rest-cure,  he  not 
infrequently  communicated  with  me  by 
means  of  annotations  to  the  letters  which  I 
wrote  him.  His  comments  are  given  in 
parenthesis. 

I  .  .  .  went  to  see  As  You  Like  It  at  the  Lyric 
Theatre,  Hammersmith,  I  wrote,  15.  5.  20.  It 
is  a  good  production  but  an  uncommonly  bad 
play,  tike  so  many  of  that  author's.  If  any 
dramatist  of  the  present  day  served  up  that  kind 
of  musical  comedy  without  the  music,  but  with 
all  the  existing  purple  patches,  I  zuonder  what 
your  modern  critic  would  make  of  it. 

(Laurence  Irving  used  to  go  about  saying, 
"Teixeira  says  that  Shakespeare  wrote  only  one 
decent  play:  Timon  of  Athens!  JFha-art  d'ye 
think  of  that?  The  mun's  mud!"  Talking  of 
Shakespeare,  if  you  want  to  laugh,  really  to 
laugh,  ce  qu'on  appelle  to  laugh,  read  {you  zvill 
never  see  it  acted)  a  stage-play  called  Titus  And- 
ronicus.   .   .   .) 

83 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

(Help!  A  man  waved  to  me  on  the  lawn 
y'day:  an  Ebrew  Jew  .  .  .  had  motored  down  to 
see  his  sister  here;  told  me  I'd  find  her  very 
"bright."  She's  fifty  bien  sonnes.  Told  him  I'd 
feel  too  shy  to  talk  to  anybody  for  weeks.  But 
I'm  lending  her  books.     Help!) 

Strictly  limited  in  the  amount  of  work 
which  he  was  allowed  to  do,  Teixeira 
in  these  weeks  read  voraciously;  and  his 
letters  of  this  period  contain  almost  the  only 
critical  judgements  that  I  was  able  to  extract 
from  him. 

On  25.  5.  20.  he  writes: 

Was  Pearsall  Smith  the  inventor  of  the  pedi- 
gree tracing  the  descent  of  the  English  from  the 
ten  lost  tribes  of  Israel? 

Isaac 

I 

Isaacson 

Saxon 

What  was  the  other  famous  book,  besides 
Erewhon,  which  George  Meredith  (whom  I  am 
beginning  to  dislike  almost  as  much  as  Henry 
James  and  Pearl  Craigie)   caused  Smith,  Elder 

84 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

&'  Co.   to   reject?     fVas   it  Treasure   Island   or 
something  quite  different? 

WJiich  Satnuel  Butlers  am  I  to  buy  now?  I 
have  (in  the  order  of  which  I  have  enjoyed 
them) : 

The   Way   of   all   Flesh 
Alps  and  Sanctuaries 
The  Notebooks 
Erewhon  Revisited 
Erewhon 

The  machinery  part  of  the  last-named  bored 
me;  the  philosophy  also;  and  I  fear  I  missed  much 
of  the  irony.  But  the  style!  It's  unbeaten. 
It's  as  good  as  Defoe.  It  knocks  Stevenson  silly 
because  it's  so  utterly  natural.  Hats  of  to  that 
for   style. 

Should  I  enjoy  The  Humour  of  Homer, 
though  knowing  nothing  or  little  about  Homer? 
The  Authoress  of  the  Odyssey:  would  this  be 
wasted  on  me?  What  is  The  Fair  Haven  about? 
I  don't  want  to  read  Butler's  religious  views — all 
you  Britons  think  and  talk  and  write  much  too 
much  about  religion — nor  his  views  on  evolution: 
he  is  too  much  in  sympathy,  I  gather,  with  that 
dishonest  fellow,  Darwin. 

What  shall  I  read  of  that  same  Darwin,  so 
that  I  may  do  my  own  chuckling?     Please  name 

85 


/Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

the  best  t'wo  or  three,  in  their  order  as  written. 

Where  shall  I  find  the  quarrels  between  Hux- 
ley and  Darwin?  That  accomplished  gyurl,  my 
stepdaughter,  had  read  all  about  them  before 
she  was  sixteen  but  was  unable  to  point  me  to 
the  book. 

At  your  leisure,  my  dear  Stephen,  answer  me 
all  these  questions.  As  you  see,  I'm  making 
progress.  I  have  neither  capacity  nor  inclina- 
tion (thank  God)  for  work  yet,  but  I  can  read  day 
without  end. 

Pearsall  Smith's  Stories  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment would  amuse  you.  It's  too  dear;  but  it 
would  amuse  you,  in  parts. 

In  discussing  Darwin's  books,  I  suggested 
that  Teixeira  should  find  out  whether  the 
members  of  his  church  were  encouraged  to 
read  them. 

He  replies,  28.  5.  20: 

.  .   .  I  am  very  glad  that  Darwin  is  on   the 

Index  and  I  hope   that  this   interferes  with  his 
royalties.   .   .   . 

And  on  2.  6.  20: 

Pray  bear  with  a  postcard.  I  noticed  that 
you  used  "detour"  on  two  occasions.   .   .   .  I  sym- 

86 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

pathize.  There's  no  English  equivalent  save 
Tony  Lumpkin's  seriocomic  "circumbendibus." 
But  I  meant  to  tell  you  of  my  recent  discovery 
that  Chesterton  uses  "detour,"  sic  without  an  ac- 
cent or  italics.  And  it's  well  worth  considering. 
I,  for  my  part,  have  made  up  my  mind  to  adopt 
it  in  future,  by  analogy  with  "depot"  and,  for 
that  matter,  "tour,"  which  is  never  italicized. 

I  also  intend  to  adopt  your  "judgement" .   .   .   . 

What  a  lot  one  can  still  write  for  a  penny! 

Tex. 

In  acknowledging  one  of  his  translations, 
I  wrote : 

Two  of  my  worst  faults  as  a  reader  are  that 
I  always  finish  a  book  which  I  have  begun  and 
always  begin  a  book  which  has  been  presented 
to  me  by  the  author  or  translator. 

Teixeira  comments: 

(I  always  thought  highly  of  your  brain  till 
now.  I  regret  to  tell  you  that  the  only  other 
human  being  who  has  ever  confessed  that  vice  to 
me  is  J.  T.  Grein's  mother.  .  .  .  Drop  that  vice. 
JVhy,  I  once  "began"  to  read  the  Bible!  .   .   .) 

With  most  of  your  criticisms  I  agree,  my  let- 
ter  continued.     Teixeira   had  been   reading   the 

87 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

manuscript  of  some  short  stories;  though  there 
are  one  or  two  points  on  which  I  remain  adamant. 
If  you  wish  to  shorten  your  life,  ask  any  Cold- 
streamer  whether  he  belongs  to  the  Coldstreams. 
It  is  always  either  the  Coldstreajn  Guards  or  the 
Coldstream.   .   .   .^ 

(I  suspected  you  of  being  right,  but  I  was  not 
ashamed  to  ask  you.  You  may  or  may  not  have 
observed  how  much  less  of  a  snob  I  am  than  most 
of  the  people  you  strike.  Cricketifig  terms, 
nautical  terms,  military  terms,  Latin  quantities, 
those  endless  excuses  for  the  worst  forms  of  Brit- 
ish snobbery,  all  leave  me  cold.) 

In  discussing  methods  of  work,  he  writes: ' 
(.  .  .  It  will  interest  you  to  know  that  Oscar 
JVilde  dropped  all  his  pleasures  when  he  wrote 
his  plays;  retired  into  rooms  in  St.  James'  Place, 
hired  ad  hoc,  to  write  the  first  line;  and  did  not 
leave  them  till  he  had  written  the  last.  And  one 
of  them  a  least,  The  Importance,  zvas  a  perfect 
work  of  art,  whatever  one  may  think  of  the 
others.) 

Though  he  enjoyed  his  rest-cure,  it  gave  him 
—he  complained — no  news  to  communicate: 

1  Incidentally,  my  father  lived  85  years,  during  all  of  which 
he  never  spoke  of  his  particular  regiment,  brigade,  division  or 
army  corps  as  anything  but  the  Coldcream  Guards;  not  in  jest 
but   in   sheer,   manly,   gentlemanly   ignorance. 

88 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

You're  not  interested  in  my  hrozvn  dog  and  I 
speak  to  no  one  else. 

On  my  pointing  out  that  I  could  not  be 
interested  in  an  animal  of  which  I  had  hither- 
to not  heard,  Teixeira  wrote,  4.  6.  20: 

.  .  .  It  must  have  been  my  morbid  delicacy 
that  prevented  me,  knowing  your  dislike  of  dogs, 
from  fnentionitig  the  brovcn  dog  before.  As  a 
man  gains  strength,  he  loses  delicacy:  that  ex- 
plains though  it  does  not  excuse  my  late  reference 
to  him.  He  is  an  Irish  terrier,  endowed  with  a 
vast  sense  of  humour,  who  runs  about  on  three 
legs  (which  is  one  more  than  I,  who  am  eighteen 
times  his  age,  can  boast)  and  plays  with  me  from 
ten  till  half-past  six  (when  I  go  to  bed).  He 
saves  me  from  all  boredom  and  I  am  grateful  to 
him.   .   .   . 

Little  by  little  I  am  beginning  to  itch  for 
work.  .  .  I  can't  work  yet;  but  I  regard  the  itch- 
ing as  a  good  sign.  And  I  no  longer  find  these 
longish  letters  so  much  of  a  strain.  It  takes  a 
lot  to  kill  a  Portugal.^ 

Bring  me  to  the  gentle  remembrance  of  your 
charming  host  and  hostess.  I  wonder  if  I  shall 
ever  meet  either  of  them  at  one  of  your  pleasant 

1  Perfectly  good  seventeenth-century  English. 

89 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

dinners   agam.     I  wonder   if  I  shall  ever  dine 
with  you  again  at  all.   .  .   . 

On  8.  6.  20  he  writes: 

.  .  .  I  send  you  a  letter  from  .  .  .  a  Beau- 
mont master  and  scholastic  in  minor  orders. 
Apart  from  its  nice  misspelling,  its  noble,  broad- 
minded  casuistry  will  explain  to  you  why  I  love 
the  Church,  as  it  explains  to  me  why  you  hate  it. 
Cependant  /  suppose  that  I  must  set  to  work  and 
read  me  a  little  Darwin. 

I  am  making  fair  progress,  as  my  recent  letters 
must  have  proved  to  you.  But  I  do  not  yet 
consider  myself  near  enough  to  complete  recov- 
ery to  return  to  town.  .  .  . 

In  June  Teixeira  was  created  a  Chevalier 
of  the  Order  of  Leopold  II.  My  letter  of 
congratulation  was  annotated  on  this  and 
other  subjects: 

Referring  to  a  criticism  of  Kipps,  I  had 
written: 

It  is  excellent  stuff,  and  I  always  regard  Wells 
as  being  one  of  the  .  .  .  greatest  .  .  .  comedy- 
writers.  But  I  always  feel  that  in  Kipps  and  all 
the  earlier  books  he  is  only  working  up  to  Mr. 

90 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Polly,  which  is  the  most  exquisite  thing  that  he 
has  done  in  that  line. 

(I  have  read  both  down  here  and  prefer  Kipps. 
The  phrases  underlined,  quoted  in  the  Times 
notice  (attached)  of  fVells'  Polly-Kippsian  "His- 
tory of  the  World"  reminds  me  irresistibly  of 
the  old  lady  who,  witnessing  a  performance  of 
"Anthony  and  Cleopatra,"  by  your  Mr.  Shake- 
speare or  our  Mr.  Shaw,  observed:  "How  dif- 
ferent from  the  home  life  of  our  dear  queen!") 

.  .  .  Let  me  offer  you — a  trifle  belatedly  per- 
haps— my  congratulations  on  your  new  dignity. 

("Thanks."     A.  Kipps) 

Certainly  you  should  tell  the  [Belgian]  Ambas- 
sador that  it  is  not  only  inconvenient  but  impos- 
sible for  you  to  be  invested  in  person  and  that  he 
must  send  you  the  warrant  and  insignia.   .   .  . 

Did  I  ever  tell  you  the  story  of  Mr.  G.'s  search 
for  a  decoration?  The  Kaiser  refused  to  give 
him  one  on  any  consideration,  and  he  therefore 
toured  Europe,  lending  or  giving  money  to  one 
government  after  another  in  the  hope  of  being 
ultimately  rewarded  with  the  4th  class  of  the 
Speckled  Pig.  In  every  court  he  was  promised 
his  decoration,  but,  when  he  presented  himself 
for  the  investiture,  the  court  officials  turned  from 
him  with  just  that  expression  of  loathing  and 
nausea  which  he  had  formerly  observed  on  the 

91 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattes 

face  of  the  Kaiser.  It  was  only  when  he  reached 
Bulgaria  that  he  found  the  Czar  and  his  court  less 
squeamish.  On  payment  of  a  considerable  sola- 
tium he  was  invested  with  the  igth  class  of  the 
Expiring  Porpoise  and  returned  in  triumph  to  his 
native  Stettin.  Here,  however,  his  troubles  were 
only  beginning,  as  he  was  unable  to  obtain  per- 
mission to  wear  the  Expiring  Porpoise  at  any 
public  function  in  Gerfnany.  Seeing  that  he  had 
paid  one  considerable  sum  to  the  Bulgarian  Czar 
and  another  to  the  firm  of  jewellers,  who  sub- 
stituted diamonds  for  the  paste  of  the  jewel  he 
felt,  naturally  enough,  that  he  ivas  receiving  little 
value  for  his  lavish  expenditure.  Bulgaria,  it 
seemed,  was  the  only  country  where  the  Expiring 
Porpoise  could  be  worn.  Accordingly  he  re- 
turned to  Sofia  and  paid  a  further  su7n  to  be  in- 
vited to  the  banquet  which  the  burgomaster  of 
Sofia  was  giving  on  the  Czar's  birthday.  Here 
he  was  at  length  rewarded  for  so  many  months  of 
disappointment  and  neglect.  Before  the  soup 
had  been  served,  the  Czar  had  hurried  round  to 
his  place  and  was  kissing  him  on  both  cheeks. 
''My  dear  old  friend!"  said  he,  "No,  you  are 
not  to  call  me  'sir' ;  henceforth  it  is  'Fritz'  and 
'Ferdinand'  betzveen  us,  is  it  not?  How  long  it 
is  since  last  I  sazu  you!  I  have  been  waiting  to 
express  my  heart-felt  regret  for  the  unpardonable 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

carelessness  of  my  Chamberlain.  When  it  was 
too  late  and  you  had  left  Sofia  (/  feared  for 
ever)  ^  my  Chamberlain  discovered  that  you  had 
been  invested  with  the  igth  Class  of  the  Expiring 
Porpoise.  You  must  have  thought  me  mad,  for 
no  sane  man  would  offer  the  igth  class  to  a  per- 
son of  your  distinction.  It  was  the  ist  class  that 
I  intended.  This  bauble  that  I  am  wearing  round 
my  neck  to-night.  Tell  me,  my  dear  Fritz,  that  it 
is  not  too  late  for  me  to  repair  my  error."  PVith 
that  word  the  Czar  removed  the  collar  and  jewel 
from  his  own  neck  and  slipped  it  over  the  head 
of  G.  taking  in  exchange  G.'s  despised  collar  and 
jewel  of  the  igth  class.  It  was  only  when  our 
friend  returned  to  his  hotel  that  he  discovered 
the  new  jewel  to  be  of  the  most  unfinished  paste, 
as  cheap  or  cheaper  than  the  paste  which  he  had 
previously  retnoved  at  such  expense  from  the 
jewel  of  the  igth  class. 

(This  is  a  splendid  story.) 

I  am  afraid,  I  added,  that  I  have  no  idea  who 
is  the  official  to  zvhom  you  apply  for  leave  to 
wear  these  things.   .   .   . 

(My  dear  Stephen,  you  had  better  here  and 
now  adopt  as  your  maxim  what  I  said  to  Brown- 
ing soon  after  he  had  engaged  my  services  on 
behalf  of  H.  M.  G.:  "I  yield  to  no  man  living 
in  my  ignorance  on  every  subject  under  the  sun." 

93 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

You  outdo  and  outvie  me.  You  never  know 
anything.  In  other  words,  you  know  nothing. 
But  I'll  wager  that  these  are  worn  without  per- 
mission. What's  the  penalty?  The  Morning 
Post  to-day  names  a  couple  of  dozen  to  whom 
it's  been  granted.) 

Evidently  feeling  that  I  was  living  to> 
much  alone,  Teixeira  enclosed  a  copy  of  Th. 
Times'  list  of  forthcoming  dances: 

(Don't  wait  for  invitations,  he  urged  in  a  post- 
script.    Ring  the  top  bell  and  walk  inside.) 

The  next  letter  needs  to  have  Teixeira's  use 
of  the  word  palimpsest  explained.  His 
good-nature  in  reading  his  friends'  manu- 
scripts was  inexhaustible.  I  never  intended 
him  to  do  more  than  give  me  a  general 
opinion;  but  his  critical  vision  was  micro- 
scopic, and  he  filled  the  margins  with  ques- 
tions and  comments.  In  returning  me  one 
manuscript,  he  wrote: 

/  have  made  some  8oo  notes,  of  which  600  are 
purely  frivolous.  Six  are  worth  serious  atten- 
tion. 

While  this  textual  scrutiny  was  quite  inval- 

94 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

uable,  Teixeira  seldom  gave  that  general 
opinion  of  which  I  always  felt  in  most  need 
at  the  moment  when  I  had  lately  finished  a 
book  and  was  unable  to  regard  it  with  detach- 
ment. Accordingly,  the  manuscript,  on  leav- 
ing him,  was  usually  sent  to  another  friend, 
who  commented  not  only  on  the  text  but  also 
on  the  marginalia.  As  her  occasional  con- 
troversies with  Teixeira  (expressed  in  such 
minutes  as: 

"Pull  yourself  together,  Mr.  T!" 

''You   men!     One's   as   bad   as   the   other, 
you  know." 

"Never  mind  what  Mr.  T.  says,  Stephen: 
I  understand." 

"I  u^ish  my  brain    worked    as    quickly    as 
that.") 

and  with  me  invited  rejoinders,  the  first  ver- 
sion of  a  manuscript  sometimes  took  on  the 
appearance  of  a  contentious  departmental 
file.  It  was  in  this  form  that  Teixeira  called 
it  a  palimpsest. 

On  22.  6.  20  he  writes: 

Thanks  for  your  letter  and  the  palimpsest.  .  .  . 
I've  studied  it  amid  distressing  circumstances,  in 

95 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

a  long-chair,  on  a  lawn,  beneath  the  sun,  sur- 
rounded by  breezes  and  patients,  who  being  for- 
bidden to  speak  to  me,  dare  not  help  me  to  collect 
the  scattered  pages.   .   .   . 

Lady  D.  is  another  of  England's  darlings.  In 
the  first  place,  she  nearly  always  agrees  with  me 
and  there  she's  right:  I  have  told  you  time  after 
time  that,  if  only  everybody  would  agree  with 
me,  the  world  would  be  an  infinitely  sweeter 
place.  In  the  second  place,  she  dislikes  Brown- 
ing almost  as  much  as  I  do.  No  one  can  dislike 
him  quite  so  much;  but  she  certainly  disapproves 
of  your  particular  taste  in  extracts  from  the  bur- 
joice  mountebank's  rhymed  works. 

I  can  understand  that  she  sometimes  unsettles 
you  by  condemning  you  for  the  quite  logical  be- 
haviour of  the  male  characters  in  your  trilogy: 
you  might  meet  this  by  presenting  her  zvith  a 
copy  of  Thus  spake  Zarathustra  in  addition  to 
those  pencils  which  will  mark  which  you  already 
had  in  mind  for  her.  On  the  other  hand,  I  think 
that  you  may  safely  take  her  word  for  it  when 
she  says: 

"Oh,  Stephen,  women  aren't  like  this!" 

Send  me  more!     Send  me  more! 

In  a  letter  of  22.  6.  20,  he  wrote: 
To-morrow  I  make  my  way  up  to  Oxford  for 

96 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

the  House  Gaudy  but  before  leaving  I  may  find  a 
moment  to  report  my  movements. 

Teixeira  comments: 

(I  have  heard  of  the  House  Beautiful  but  never 
of  the  House  Gaudy.  Now  don't  be  a  British 
snob  but  answer  like  a  little  Irish  gentleman,  as 
I  should  answer  if  you  asked  me  what  "acht- 
eti-tachtig  Jchtergracht"  mean  in  Dutch.  Of 
course,  working  it  out  in  the  light  of  my  own  in- 
telligence, I  feel  that,  if  "House"  is  an  Oxford 
sobriquet  for  Christ  Church  and  "gaudy"  Oxford 
slang  for  a  merrymaking  of  sorts,  you  ought  to 
have  suppressed  that  capital  G  and  written  "the 
House  gaudy,"  in  distinction  from  the  Balliol 
gaudy,  the  Magdalen  gaudy,  etc. 

You  are  not  a  Hottentot  (Loud  cheers),  hut 
you  are  as  fond  of  capital  letters  as  a  Hottentot 
is  of  glass  beads. 

I'm  feeling  rather  full  of  beans  to-day  .  .  . 
(as  you  perceive.)    .   .   . 

The  improvement  was  visibly  maintained 
in  his  letter  of  25.  6.  20: 

Thanks  for  your  two  letters  of  the  2^rd  and 
2^th  instant  postum.  Don't  start;  instant  pos- 
tum  is  the  ridiculous  name  of  the  toothsome  bev- 

.      97 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

erage  ivliich  my  specialist  ordered  me  to  take 
instead  of  tea  or  cojfee.   .   .   . 

I  jump  at  the  chance  of  playing  the  school- 
master in  the  matter  of  those  capital  letters.  It 
is  too  utterly  jolly  finding  you  in  a  compliant 
mood.  .   .   . 

My  rule  and  yours  might  well  be  to  start  with 
a  definite  prejudice  against  capital  letters  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  cofubined  with  a  resolve 
never  to  use  them  if  it  can  be  avoided.  Having 
taken  up  this  firm  standpoint,  we  can  afford  and 
we  can  begin  to  make  concessions.  For  instance, 
my  heart  leapt  with  joy,  nearly  iwenty  years 
ago,  when  the  founders  of  the  Burlington  Review 
decided  to  abolish  all  capitals  to  adjectives,  to 
print  "french,  german,  egyptian,  persian,"  etc. 
You  have  no  idea  how  well  this  affected  the  page. 
But  what  is  all  right  in  a  majestic  review  (or  was 
it  magazine,  by  the  way?)  like  the  Burlington 
may  look  ultraprecious  in  a  novel.  Therefore  I 
concede  French,  German,  etc.  Only  remember 
that  it  is  a  concession,  a  concession  to  Anglo- 
American  vulgarity.  A  Frenchman  writes  (and 
that  not  invariably :  I  mean,  not  every  French- 
man). "Un  Francais  les  Anglais,"  but  (invar- 
iably) "L'elan  francais,  le  rosbif  anglais  '^  The 
Germans  and  Danes  begin  all  nouns  with  a  capi- 
tal (as  the  English  did,  in  some  centuries),  but 

98 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

no  adjectives  whatever.  The  Italians,  Norwe- 
gians and  Swedes  have  no  capitals  to  their  ad- 
jectives; the  Dutch  are  gradually  discarding 
them;  they  are  discarded  entirely  in  scientists* 
Latin:  the  Narbonne  Lycos  a  (a  certain  spider  of 
the  Tarantida  genus)  in  Latin  becomes  Lycosa 
narbonniensis.   .   .   . 

Your  question  about  "high  mass"  is,  involun- 
tarily, not  quite  fair.  Mass  quite  conceivably 
comes  within  the  category  of  such  words  as  State 
and  a  few  others,  which  are  spelt  with  a  capital 
in  one  sense  and  not  in  another.^  I  write  "going 
to  mass"  (no  French  catholic  would  write  "allant 
a  la  Messel")  and  I  see  no  reason  why  catholics 
should  write  Mass  except  in  a  technical  work. 
They  would  write  "the  Host"  because  of  the  real 
presence;  but  I  see  no  more  reason  for  the  Mass 
than  for  Matins  or  Compline.  Obviously,  it 
is  different  in  a  technical  work  in  translating 
Fabre,  I  speak  of  a  JVasp,  a  Spider,  a  Beetle;  in 
translating  Couperus,  I  do  not.   .   .   . 

"The  Colonel,  the  Major,  the  Vicar,"  in  a 
novel;  don't  they  set  your  teeth  on  edge?  As 
well  write  about  the  Postmistress  of  the  village. 

When  in  doubt,  as  I  wrote  to  you  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  hyphenated  noUns,  take  little  Murray  ^ 

1  Even    the    French    ivriie,    invariably,    un    coup    d'Etat,    ie 
conseil  d'Etat,  but  I'etat  des  coups,  I'etat  du  conseil. 
1  The    Concise   Oxford    Dictionary. 

99 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

for  your  guide.  He  has  the  sense  to  begin  the 
vast,  the  i7nmense  majority  of  his  words  with  a 
lower-case  letter.  And  there  are  doubtful 
words:  Titanic,  Cyclopean.  I  never  know  these 
without  turning  'em  up  for  myself. 
To  sum  up: 

(a)  take  a  firm  stand  against  capitals  gener- 
ally; 

(b)  be  prepared  to  make  moderate  (i.  e. 
grudging,)   concessions ; 

(c)  have  little  Alurray  at  your  elbow. 

After  so  long  a  letter,  Teixeira  contented 
himself  with  a  few  annotations  to  one  next 
day. 

On  my  telling  him  that  I  had  congratulated 
a  common  friend  of  his  son's  "blue",  he  inter- 
posed: 

(I  would  write  to  A.  P.  if  I  knew  what  a 
"blue"  was;  but  I  really  have  not  the  remotest 
idea.  Word  of  honour,  I'm  not  conniegilchrist- 
ing.  I  presume  it  has  to  do  with  cricket;  and 
it's  a  mere  guess.) 

I  have  studied  your  exposition  of  capitals,  I 
continued,  with  great  interest  and,  I  hope,  profit, 
though  there  is  a  fundamental  difficulty  which  I 

lOO 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

hasten  to  put  before  you.  ...  So  long  as 
proper  names  intrude  their  capitals  into  mid- 
sentetice  you  cannot  arrive  at  flat  uniformity,  and 
a  few  capitals  more  or  less  do  not  offend 
me.   .   .   . 

/  did  not  intend  to  be  unfair  about  High  Mass 
and  first  thought  of  suggesting  for  your  consid- 
eration either  Holy  Communion  or  that  hideous, 
hypocritical,  pusillanimous  compromise  beloved 
of  Anglicans,  the  "eucharist,"  then  substituted  the 
name  of  a  ceremonial  in  your  own  church.  You, 
I  see,  write  of  the  Real  Presence  without  capitals. 

(Gross  knavery  and  insincerity  on  my  part; 
rank  scoundrelism.  I'd  have  put  caps,  on  any 
other  occasion.) 

I  should  give  capitals  to  this  and  to  such  words 
as  Incarnation,  Crucifixion  and  Ascension,  when 
used  in  a  religious  connection.  Also  to  the  word 
Hegira  and  any  similar  words  culled  from  any 
other  religion.  As  I  told  you  before,  I  am  with- 
out a  rule  and  would  let  almost  any  word  have 
its  capital,  if  I  could  please  it  thereby.  Words 
used  in  a  special  sense  also  have  their  capitals 
from  me,  as  for  example  Hall,  when  that  means 
a  college  dinner  served  in  hall.  No,  I  am  afraid 
that  a  capital  for  colonel,  major  and  vicar  leaves 
my   teeth  unmoved,   and  I  could  write  postmis- 

lOI 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

tress  with  a  capital  light-heartedly.  On  the  other 
hand  I  should  not  use  a  capital  for  dustman,  as 
this  is  not  a  title  or  office. 

I  am,  as  you  see,  cjuite  illogical  and  inconsist- 
ent; and,  if  I  try  to  follow  your  rides,  it  will 
be  only  in  the  hope  of  pleasing  you.  I  cannot 
rouse  myself  to  any  enthusiasm  for  or  against  a 
liberal  use  of  capitals  and  I  do  not  think  that 
it  is  a  matter  of  great  importance.  On  consid- 
erations of  comeliness,  I  think  the  French  printed 
page,  with  its  vile  type  and  vile,  fiufy  paper,  is 
one  of  the  ugliest  things  (Nonsense,  nonsense, 
you  iinasthetic  Celt!  The  unsought,  natural 
beauty  and  perfection  of  the  page  make  up  for 
all  the  inferiority  of  the  material.  Never  say 
that  again!  Your  friend  Seymour  Leslie  would 
scratch  and  claw  you  for  it.)  ever  allowed  to 
issue  from  a  printing  press,  but  that  may  be  only 
insular  prejudice.   .  .  . 

Forgive  a  boring  letter,  I  beg,  but  I  am  in  a 
thoroughly   boring  mood.      (Grawnted.)    .   .   . 

A  postscript  to  this  controversy  came  on  a 
postcard  dated  28.  6.  20: 

.  .  .  Darwin  spells  "the  king''  with  a  small 
"k." 

He  is  rather  good  in  spelling,  bad  in  punctuat- 
ion, execrable  in  statement,  logic,  deduction.     In 

102 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 
The  Descent  of  Man  he  says: 

"Music  arouses  in  us  various  emotions,  but  not 
the  more  terrible  ones  of  horror,  fear,  rage,  etc.'' 

lie  had  never  heard  of  me,  though  I  was  ij 
when  he  died. 

Tex. 

Crowborough,  JO  June  (alas, 

how  time  flies!)  igzo. 
For  your   two   letters   of  28,  2g   June,    many 
thanks.     I  really  can't  write  and  congratulate  H. 
o«  that!     How  awful! 

And  to  think  that,  if  Lionel  [the  recipient  of 
the  "blue"]  had  been  "vowed"  to  the  B.  V.  M. 
in  his  infancy,  he'd  have  worn  nothing  but  blue 
and  white,  anyhow,  till  he  came  of  age!  .   .   . 

(Objecting  to  my  having  enclosed  the  phrase 
^'honest  broker"  in  inverted  commas,  he 
continues : 

Lady  Y.,  you  may  remember,  said: 
"Good  beobles,  we  come  here  for  your  goots." 
"Ay,"    they    replied,    "and    for    our    chattels 
too!" 

I  don' t  zvant  your  chattels;  but  I  am  convinced 
that  I  came  to  England  for  your  goots  and  to 
save  you  from  degenerating  into  a  lady  novelist. 

103 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  JVLattos 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  Lady  D.  agreed  with  you. 
.  .  .  Seriously,  however:  suppose  Winston  were 
to  use  a  perfectly  commonplace  metaphor,  to  say, 
e.  g.,  that  he  had  ordered  the  Gallipoli  expedi- 
tion off  his  own  hat.  Would  that  for  all  time 
raise  those  four  words  from  the  commonplace  to 
the  exceptional?  Could  you  never  employ  that 
phrase  except  in  '' quotes"?  .   .   . 

Be  sensible.  Do  not  fight  against  your  res- 
cuer. Let  me,  when  I  receive  the  Royal  Humane 
Society's  medal,  feel  that  my  gallant  efforts  were 
not  in  vain,  that  I  succeeded  in  saving  your  life 
and  sold!  .   .   . 

P.  S.  An  invitation  to  the  .  .  .  Oppenheim  wed- 
ding has  just  arrived.  Like  the  man  ivho  an- 
swered the  big-game-hunter's  advertisement,  I'm 
not  going.^ 

^  The  reference  here  is  to  a  story  illustrative  of  the  tricks 
which   a  man's  memory  sometimes  plays  him: 

Reading  in  the  Morning  Post,  that  Mr.  John  Brown,  of  500 
Clarges  Street,  is  shortly  leaving  for  Uganda  on  a  big-game- 
shooting  expedition  and  would  like  a  gentleman  to  come  with 
him,  sharing  expenses,  thought  no  more  of  the  advertisement 
and  went  about  his  day's  work.  That  night  he  dined  intemper- 
ately.  On  being  ejected  from  his  club,  he  was  bound  for  home 
when  he  recalled  the  forgotten  advertisement  and  decided  that 
something  must  be  done   about  it. 

Driving  to  500  Clarges  Street,  he  demanded  to  see  Mr.  John 
Brown. 

"Are  you  Mr.  John  Brown?"  he  enquired  of  a  sleepy  and 
illhumoured  figure  in  pyjamas. 

"I  am,   sir,"  answered  John  Brown. 

104 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

"You're  the  Mr.  John  Brown  going  shooting  Uganda?" 
"Yes." 

"You  want  shome  one  come  with  you?" 
"Yes."  .  .  . 
"Share  'spenshes?" 
"Yes." 

"You  put  that  'vertisshment  in  Morning  Posht?" 
"Yes." 

"I    thought    sho.     Shorry    Icnock    you    up.     Felt    I    musht    tell 
you.  ,  .  .  that   I'm  not   coming."  .  .  . 

Trusting  thai  this  mill  find  you  alive,  he  writes 
7.  7.  20,  /  write  to  thank  you  for  your  letter 
and  to  return  the  book.  [The  Diary  of  a  No- 
body]. //  amused  jne,  though  I  am  not  prepared 
to  go  as  far  as  Rosebinger,  Birring er  or  Bel- 
linger. I  could  certainly  furnish  a  bedroom  with- 
out it;  in  fact,  I  hope  to  die  before  I  read  it 
again;  I  don't  rank  it  with  Don  Quixote;  and  I 
have  never  seen  the  statue  of  St.  John  the  Bap- 
tist, so  "can't  say."  I  think  that  Mr.  Hardfur 
Huttle,  towards  the  end,  does  much  to  cheer  the 
reader. 

I  have  bought  pahnds  and  pahnds'  worth  of 
hooks;  I  am  rou-inned;  and  yet  I  never  have 
aught  to  read.  Can  you  lend  me  Huxley's  Col- 
lected Essays?  Can  you  lend  me  anything  in 
which  somebody  "goes  for"  somebody  else?  I 
yearn  to  read  savage  attacks;  you  know  what  I 
mean:  not  attaxi-cabri-au  lait,  but  attacks  free 
from  all  milk  of  human  kindness. 

105 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Here  is  a  typical  quotation  from  your  fav- 
ourite "poet",  whojn,  by  the  way,  Benjamin  Beac- 
ons field  disliked  as  much  as  I  do: 

"Out  of  the  wreck  I  rise,  past  Zeus  to  the 
P(sic)otency  o'er  him." 

Nice  and  typical,  isn't  itf  But  you  mustn't  use 
it,  as  the  first  six  words  form  the  title  of  a  novel 
by  Beatrice  Harraden  which  I  have  been  driven 
to  read  down  here  by  the  dearth  of  books. 

My  last  two  purchases  have  just  arrived;  series 
i  and  ii  of  the  New  Decameron.  Shall  I  enjoy 
them?  .   .   . 

You  will  want  something  to  read  in  the  train, 
he  writes  on  lo.  7.  20.  Read  this  Muddiman  s 
jMen  of  the  Nineties.  Bilt  please  return  it  to  me; 
it  will  serve  to  keep  the  child  quiet  when  she  next 
comes  down.  And  it  served  to  make  me  feel 
very  young  again  (seven  years  younger  than  you 
are  now)  to  read  of  all  those  remarkable  men 
with  whom  I  foregathered  in  the  nineties. 

They  would  probably  have  accepted  Squire  and 
Siegfried  Sassoon.^  None  of  the  other  poets; 
none  of  the  prose-writers,  painters,  "blasters"  or 
blighters.   .   .   . 

In  acknowledging  the  book,  I  objected  to 
what  I  considered  the  excessive  importance 

^  They  would  have  gone  quite  mad  over  the  Russian  Ballet. 

106 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

that  is  still  attached  to  the  men  of  the  nineties 
and  to  their  work: 

/  doubt,  I  wrote,  12.7.20,  whether  the 
years  iSgo  to  igoo  have  produced  more  per- 
manent literature  of  the  first  order  than  any  other 
decade  of  the  igth  century — or  the  twentieth. 
Paris  was  discovered  anew  in  those  days  and 
seemed  a  tremendous  discovery,  though  its  in- 
fluence was  meretricious,  and  the  imitations  from 
the  French  were  usually  of  the  worst  French 
models.  The  discovery  of  art  for  art's  sake  was, 
I  ahvays  feel,  the  most  meaningless  and  preten- 
tious of  all  other  shams.  Even  Wilde  never 
made  clear  'what  he  meant  by  the  phrase,  though 
he  and  his  school  interpreted  it  practically  by  a 
wholly  decadent  over-elaboration  of  decoration. 
The  interest  of  the  period  lies  in  the  astounding 
success  achieved  by  this  noisy  and  self-sufficient 
coterie  in  imposing  itself  on  the  easily  startled, 
and  easily  shocked  and  still  more  easily  impressed 
middle  and  upper  classes  of  London  society. 
But  that  is  a  thing  that  so  many  people  can  do 
and  a  thing  that  is  so  seldom  worth  doing. 

In  a  later  letter,  I  added,  15.6.  20: 

/  believe  that  the  great  bubble  of  the  nineties 
has  been  pricked  for  the  present  generation.     All 

107 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

the  zi-ork  of  Max,  most  of  Beardsley  and  a  little 
of  Wilde  have  a  permanent  place;  and,  if  some 
one  would  do  for  the  poets  and  essayists  of  the 
mineties  zihat  Eddie  Marsh  has  done  for  the 
Georgian  poets,  we  might  have  one  volume  of 
moderate  size  containing  the  poetry  of  interest 
and  good  craftsmanship  though  of  little  power  or 
originality.   .   .   . 

Whether  [the  artistic  movement  of  the 
nineties]  effected  any  great  liberation  of  spirit  or 
manner  from  the  fetters  of  mid-Victorian  litera- 
ture I  cannot  say,  though  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it. 
That  liberation  was  being  achieved  by  individual 
writers  such  as  Meredith  and  Kipling,  who  never 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  domino-room  of  the 
Cheshire  Cheese.  Never,  I  am  sure,  was  any 
artistic  group  so  void  of  humour  as  the  men  of  the 
nineties. 

Having  damned  them,  their  period  and 
work  so  far,  I  may  surprise  you  by  conceding 
that  they  do  still  arouse  great  interest.  .  .  .  I 
have  been  thinking  that  it  is  almost  your  duty  to 
put  on  permanent  record  your  own  knowledge  and 
opinions  about  this  school.  Max  Beerbohm  is 
unlikely  to  do  it,  and  you  must  now  be  one  of 
the  very  few  men  living  who  were  on  terms  of 
intimacy  with  the  leaders  of  the  movement.  .  .  . 
Men  under  thirty  have  never  heard  of  John  Gray, 

io8 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Grackanthorpe  or  your  over  advertised  American 
friend    Peters.      Your    annotations     to     Muddi- 
man's  book  go  some  very  little  distance  towards 
filling  this  gap,  but  I  think  you  should  undertake 
something  more  substantial.     For  heaven  s  sake 
do  not  call  it  The  History  of  the  Nineties,  but 
is   there  any  reason  why  you  should  not — from 
your   memory    and   without   consulting    a   single 
work    of    reference — compile    a    little    book    of 
Notes  on  the  'Nineties?     Make  it  an  informal 
dictionary  of  biography,  put  down  all  the  names 
of   the   men   associated   with   that   movement   at 
leisure,  record  about  each  everything  that  has  not 
yet  appeared  in  print  and  correct  the  occasionally 
incorrect  accounts  of  other  writers.     Such  a  book 
would  be  a  valuable  addition  to  literary  history, 
It  would  be  amusing  and  not  difficult  for  you  to 
write,   it  could  be  turned   to    the  profit  of  your 
reputation  and  pocket.   .   .   . 

For  this  criticism  Teixeira  took  me  to  task 
in  his  letter  of  14.  7.  20. 

And  now,  Stephen,  tremble.  How  often  have 
I  not  called  you  "the  wise  youth!"  How  con- 
stantly have  I  not  believed  you  to  be  filled  with 
knowledge,  either  acquired  or  instinctive  and  in- 
tuitive, of  most  things!  And  nozv  your 
letter  .   .   .   has  disappointed  me  almost  to  tears. 

109 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Your  only  excuse  would  be  that  you  took  Oscar 
Wilde  and  Bernard  Shaw  to  he  and  practically 
alone  to  be  the  men  of  the  nineties.  That  is  not 
so.  And,  if  you  agree  with  7ne  that  Oscar  was  a 
man  of  the  eighties  and  that  Shazv  is  a  man  of 
the  twentieth  century,  you  have  no  excuse  what- 
ever and  g8^/o  of  the  first  paragraph  in  your 
letter  is  dead  wrong. 

I  presume  that  you  keep  copies  of  your  letters 
to  me:  you  should;  they  will  be  Useful  for  your 
Memoirs  of  a  Celibate  (John  Murray:  1950; 
i05/-net).      Anyhow,  here  goes: 

There  was  no  question  of  either  a  literary  re- 
vival or  revolution  in  the  nineties  and  there  was 
no  sham,  colossal  or  minute. 

The  7nen  engaged  were  not  pretentious,  not 
conceited,  not  humbugs.  They  were  a  group  of 
7nen,  mostly  under  JO,  who  just  wrote  and  drew 
and  painted  as  well  as  they  could,  in  all  sincerity 
and  with  no  view  of  financial  gain.  Dowson,  John- 
son, Horner,  Image,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  were  the  hum- 
blest, most  modest  lot  of  literary  men  I  ever  met. 

Their  output  was  not  immense:  it  was  infin- 
itesimal, just  because  they  were  so  careful  to 
produce  only  work  that  was  ''just  so."  Think, 
Stephen.  What  did  Henry  Harland,  one  of  the 
few  to  live  to  over  40,  put  out?  The  Cardinal's 
Snuff   Box,    My  Friend   Prospers,    Mademoiselle 

no 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Miss  and  Other  Stories:  that  is  all!  Ernest 
Dowson:  two  slim  volumes  of  verse,  half-a- 
dozen  short  stories,  a  collaborator  s  share  in  two 
novels.  John  Gray:  one  slim  volume  of  verse. 
Lionel  Johnson:  God  knows  how  little.  And  so 
on.  Arthur  Symns  has  worked  on  steadily,  but, 
though  he  is  getting  on  for  sixty,  you  cannot  say 
that  his  output  is  immense  or  contains  anything 
that  was  not  worth  doing. 

Immensely  advertised!  Where?  And  by 
whom? 

Beardsley's  output  was  immense,  for  his  years. 
Ought  not  the  world  to  he  grateful  for  it?  He 
told  me  once  that  he  had  an  itch  for  work;  and  it 
looked  afterwards  as  if  he  knew  that  he  was 
doomed  to  die  at  24  or  26  and  wanted  to  throw 
of  all  he  could  before.  When  he  worked  no  one 
knew:  no  one  ever  saw  him  at  work  and  he  was 
always  about  and  always  accessible. 

He  was  not  conceited.  .  .  .  Rickets  and  Shan- 
non were  a  little  conceited:  they  had  a  way  of 
"coming  the  Pope"  over  the  rest,  as  Will  Roth- 
enstein  once  put  it  to  me.  (Will  always  took 
"a  proper  pride"  in  his  excellent  work,  but  no 
more).  But,  Lord,  hadn't  they  the  right  to  he? 
Was  ever  a  book  more  beautifully  designed  than 
Silverpoints  (cover,  page,  type,  typesetting  by 
Ricketts)?     Place  Ricketts'  cover  of  the  Pageant 

III 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

beside  any  other  book  in  your  library  and  tell  me 
how  it  strikes  you.  Look  at  anything  that 
Charles  Shannon  condescends  to  exhibit  in  the 
Academy  and  see  how  the  quality  of  it  slays 
everything  around  it  exactly  as  a  picture  by  Whis- 
tler or  Rossetti  would  do. 

To  revert  to  immensity  of  output  (I  have  to 
keep  levanting  and  tacking  about),  I  call  im- 
mense the  output  of  Belloc  (the  modern  Sterne) , 
Chesterton  (the  modern  Swift),  E.  V.  Lucas 
(the  modern  Addison) ;  they  themselves  would  be 
flattered  at  the  comparisons.  These  chaps, 
though  they  can  and  sometimes  do  write  as  well 
as  the  men  of  the  nineties,  spoil  their  average  by 
writing  immensely ;  and  they  write  immensely  be- 
cause  they  want  a  good  deal  of  money.  Now  the 
men  of  the  nineties  hadn't  clubs,  homes,  wives  or 
children;  lunched  for  a  shilling;  dined  for  eighteen 
pence;  and  didn't  want  a  lot  of  money. 
They  cared  neither  for  money  nor  fame;  they 
cared  for  their  own  esteem  and  that  of  what  you 
call  their  coterie  and  I  their  set. 

And  that  (to  answer  a  question  which  you  once 
asked  me)  is  art  for  art's  sake;  and  I  maintain 
that  it  is  not  right  to  call  this  meaningless  or  pre- 
tentious or  a  sham. 

This  coterie,  or  set,  was  not  noisy:  I  never 
met  a  quieter;  it  was  self-sufficient  only   in   the 

I  12 


Alexander  Tetxeira  de  Mattos 

best  sense;  and  it  in  no  way  imposed  or  impressed 
itself  on  the  middle  and  upper  classes  of  London 
society.  How  could  they?  I  doubt  if  any  num- 
ber of  the  Savoy  ever  sold  i ,000  copies;  certainly 
no  number  ever  sold  2,000.  And  they  .  .  .  were 
never  in  society,  were  never  in  the  outskirts  of 
society  and  never  wanted  to  be  in  either. 

But  there!  I  daresay  you  were  thinking  of 
Oscar  all  the  tifne.  .   .   . 

Enter  on  the  lawn  a  nurse  bearing  my  dinner- 
tray.     After  dinner  I  retire  to  bed.   .   .   . 

One  day,  Teixeira  added,  17.  7.  20,  I'll  re- 
turn to  those  men  of  the  nineties  (I  will  never 
write  a  book  about  the??i:  really  I  was  too  much 
outside  them).   .   .   . 

I  trust  that  some  Leonard  Merricks  are  on 
the  way:  I'm  nigh  starved  for  books  again. 
Don't  send  me  Zola  or  Balzac  in  English:  I 
couldn't  stomach  the  translations.  And  I  ex- 
pect you're  right  about  Balzac's  French  style. 
Those  giants  were  awful  chaps:  Balzac,  Rubens, 
the  pylon-designing  Baincs,   brrrf  .   .   . 

On  22,  7.  20  he  writes : 

/  beseech  you,  if  you  haven't  it,  buy  yourself  a 
copy  of  The  Home  Life  of  Herbert  Spencer. 
By  "Two."  //  is  the  book  praised  by  "Rozbury" 
in  his  letter  to  Arrowsmith  prefacing  The  Diary 

113 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

of  a  Nobody.  /  bought  it  and  began  to  shake 
zvith  laughter  at  Rosebery' s  being  such  an  ass. 
But,  after  a  few  pages,  I  began  to  see  what  he 
meant;  and  then,  time  after  time,  I  nearly  rolled 
off  my  long-chair  with  laughing  not  at  Rosebery 
but  ivith  him.  I'd  lend  it  you,  but  it'll  only 
cost  you  3/6;  and  I  want  you  to  have  it  as  a  com- 
panion volume  to  The   Diary. 

However,  if  you  will  not  buy  it,  I  will  lend  it 
to  you.  You've  ''got"  to  read  it,  or  I  will  never 
write  you  another  letter. 

And  on  23.  7.  20: 

Some  32  years  ago,  "Pearl  Hobbes"  wrote  to 
me  that  I  ought  to  translate  Balzac;  and  I  am 
sorry  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  do  Goriot.  /  am 
rereading  it  all  the  same  with  much  enjoyment, 
though  I  think  that  these  gala  editions  should  be 
at  least  as  well  translated  as  my  Lutetian  set  of 
six  Zola  novels. 

Huxley,  in  his  little  autobiography,  writes: 

"As  Rastignac,  in  the  Pere  Goriot,  says  to 
Paris,  I  said  to  London: 

"  'A  nous  deux!'  " 

I  remembered  that  this  came  at  the  end  of 
the  book,  turned  to  it  and  found: 

"Rastignac  .  .  .  saw  beneath  him  Paris,  .  .  . 
The  glance  he  darted  on  this  buzzing  hive  seemed 

114 


}  >) 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

in  advance  to  drink  its  honey,  while  he  said 
proudly: 

"  'Nd'-jo  for  our  turn — hers  and  mine. 

An  epigrammatic  tag  sadly  boshed,  I  think. 

I  find  that  "leave  them  nothing  but  their  eyes 
to  weep  with''  occurs  in  this  hook;  so  we  must 
absolve  poor  old  Bismark  at  any  rate  from  in- 
venting this  bloodthirsty  phrase. 

And  I  find  the  Ukraine  mentioned!  The 
Ukraine!  The  dear  old  Ukraine!  A  sweet 
land  of  which  I — and  you?  he  honest!  had  never 
heard  before  the  days  of  the  W .  T .  I.  D. 

I  have  sent  for  a  complete  set  of  Heine  from 
Heinemann;  it  just  occurred  to  me  that  I  have 
read  little  of  this  great  man's.  And  I  am  told 
that  the  translation  is  good.   .  .  . 

Do  E.  and  J.,  he  asks,  26.  7.  20,  ever  perpet- 
rate those  plays  upon  words  of  zvhich  Heine  zvas 
so  fond?  They  are  not  exactly  puns;  I  am  not 
sure  that  quodlibets  isn't  the  word  for  them.  E. 
G.  :  Herr  von  Schnabelowpski  smites  the  heart 
of  a  Dutch  hotel-proprietress.  Over  the  real 
china  cups  she  gazes  at  him  porcela  (i)  nguidly. 

That  is  not  a  very  good  example.  This  one 
is  better:  Heine  calls  on  Rothschild  at  Frank- 
furt. Rothschild  receives  him  quite  famillion- 
airly. 

Good-bye.     It  threatens  rain;  and  I  propose 

115 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

to  spend  the  day  in  bed,  with  the  proofs  of  The 
Inevitable.   .   .   . 

A  criticism  of  Plarr's  Life  of  Dowson 
leads  Teixeira,  27.  7.  20,  to  annotate  the  letter 
that  contained  it: 

.  .  .  I  was  suggesting,  I  wrote,  that  the  ef- 
fect .  .  .  on  the  minds  of  a  generation  which 
knew  not  Dowson  zvotdd  be  to  make  it  feel  that 
it  did  not  want  to  know  him.   .   .   . 

(Your  cecession  from  Catholicism,  he  replies, 
has  done  you  McKennas  a  lot  of  harm.  You 
flout  tradition  and  go  in  for  rational  inference 
and  deduction  in  its  place.  Horrible,  horrible! 
The  apostles  are  not  all  dead;  many  of  them  are 
your  living  contemporaries;  you  could,  if  you  like, 
leceive  at  first  hand  their  memories  of  their  dead 
fellows;  and  you  prefer  to  make  up  your  own 
mistaken  impressions  in  the  light  of  your  own 
mistaken  intellect.     fVell,  well! 

And,  if  you  write  just  that  sort  of  life  of  me, 
I'll  wriggle  zvith  pleasure  in  my  coffin.) 

This  evening  Henry  Arthur  Jones  is  giving  a 
dinner  .  .  .  to  James  M.  Beck.  .  .  .  I  have  been 
hidden  to  attend.  .  .  . 

(Beck  is  the  finest  orator  I  ever  heard;  and  I've 
heard  Gladstone  inter  alios. 

116 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Those  Heine  qiiodlihets  about  which  I  wrote 
y'day  are,  I  believe,  called  "split  puns,"  though 
I  doubt  the  happiness  of  the  term.  I  made  one  in 
my  sleep  this  morning:  rowdies  on  the  Brighton 
road  indulging  in  a  charabanquet.   .   .   .  ) 

I  can  never  have  news,  as  you  may  imagine, 
writes  Teixeira,  29.  7.  20;  my  letters  must  be 
always  replies  to  yours.   .   .   . 

I  like  your  Cave-Brown-Cave  story  if  it  was 
true;  it  probably  zvas,  as  a  family  of  that  name 
exists.^ 

I  never  heard  John  Redmond,  I  am  sorry  to 
say.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  after  my  time.  I 
heard  Parnell  and,  if  I  were  only  a  mimic,  coidd 
give  you  his  curiously  contemptuous,  high-bred, 
high-pitched  voice  to-day.  I  heard  Randolph; 
and  at  the  time,  in  the  eighties,  both  he  and 
Arthur  Balfour  used  to  lisp.  Does  A.  B.  lisp 
now?  Answer  this:  it  interests  7ne;  and  it  has 
a  sort  of  bearing  on  that  passing-fashion  com- 
petition which  you  were  starting.  So  essential 
to  birth  and  breeding  was  the  lisp  in  those  days 
that  even  the  English-bred  Comte  de  Paris 
lisped  .   .   .   in  French!     I  was  at  his  silver  wed- 

1  The  story  in  question  was  of  a  member  of  the  Cave-Brown- 
Cave  family,  who,  after  conversing  with  a  stranger  in  a  rail- 
way-carriage, was  asked  his  name. 

"Cave-Brown-Cave,"    he    replied.     "And    may    I    ask   yours?" 
"Home-Sweet-Home,"  answered  his  infuriated  interlocutor. 

117 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ding   and   well   remember   his    reception    of   me. 

"Youth  etes  le  bienvenu  ithi!" 

Incidentally  I  remember  that  good  King  Ed- 
ward ("then  Prince  of  Wales,"  as  the  memoir- 
writers  say)  glared  at  me  furiously  on  that  oc- 
casion, because  I  was  wearing  trousers  of  the 
identical  pattern  as  his:  an  Urquhart  check  with 
a  pink  line.  .   .   . 

In  the  course  of  a  dinner-party  given  at 
this  time,  the  conversation  turned  on  those  men 
and  women  who  had  won  everlasting  renown 
with  the  least  effort  or  justification.  The 
United  States  Ambassador  (Mr.  Davis)  pro- 
posed Eutychus,  of  whom  little  is  known  but 
that  he  fell  asleep  during  a  sermon  and 
tumbled  from  a  window:  I  suggested  the 
uncaring  Gallio,  who  did  less  and  is  better 
known.  Some  one  else  put  forward  Melchis- 
edec.  Agreeing  that  every  name  in  the  Bible 
has  a  certain  immortality,  we  turned  to  sec- 
ular history.  At  the  subsequent  instigation 
of  Mr.  Davis,  Lord  Curzon  of  Kedleston 
propounded  "the  apple-bearing  son  of  Wil- 
liam Tell."  I  invited  Teixeira  to  give  his 
opinion. 

ii8 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  can't  compete  with  Ciirzon,  he  replied  on 
6.  8.  20,  though  I've  tried.  After  all,  he  was 
one  of  the  Souls!  I  did  think  of  Alfred  and  the 
cakes;  but  that  monarch  owes  only  %  of  his 
immortality  to  those  cakes  and  young  Tell  owed 
all  his  to  the  apple.  But  stay!  Many  hold 
Tell  and  his  offspring  to  be  mythical  persons. 
If  so,  what  about  the  good  wife  who  scolded  Al- 
fred? I  should  like  you  to  find  some  one  who 
will  say   that  I  have   beaten   Curzon.  .   .   . 

I  shall  be  in  town  from  8  September  to  a  few 
days  later.  If  you  want  to  see  me,  you  must 
arrange  your  engagements  accordingly.  I  am  the 
colour  which  we  can  never  get  our  brown  shoes  to 
assume  till  just  before  the  moment  when  they 
drop  off  our  feet.  But  I  am  as  weak  as  ten  thou- 
sand rats.  .   .   . 

On  7.  8.  20  he  writes : 

You  will  remember  that  .  .  .  I  declined  to  join 
your  Passing  Fashion  Research  Society,  or  what- 
ever you  decided  to  call  it.  But  I  have  no  ob- 
jection to  being  an  honorary  corresponding  mem- 
ber.    And  I  will  set  you  a  subject. 

To  establish  the  year  in  which  it  first  became 
the  vogue  for  smart  British  males  to  don  a  de- 
liberately  dowdy  attire. 

119 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

The  dozvdiness  all  burst  upon  my  astonished 
eyes  at  once:  the  up-and-down  collar  worn  with 
a  top  hat  and  a  morning  coat;  permanently 
turned  trousers  worn  with  Oxford  shoes,  so  as  to 
display  an  inch  or  so  of  sock;  tie  usually  to 
match  the  socks  and  often  "self-coloured"  and  pat- 
ternless.  There  are  three  items  of  sheer  deliber- 
ate ddivdiness  for  you.  Another  dowdy  item 
was  even  a  little  earlier,  I  believe:  the  one-but- 
toned glove,  showing  a  bit  of  bare  wrist  between 
it  and  the  shirt-cuff.  But  the  soft-fronted  dress- 
shirt,  also  a  piece  of  dowdy  dandyism,  came  in 
much  at  the  same  time  as  the  three  specimens 
cited  above. 

I  should  guess  the  year  to  be  either  igoj  or 
iQoS,  but  I  am  not  quite  sure.  You,  with  your 
wonderful  memory,  may  be  able  to  place  it,  for 
igoy-S  marks  the  period  when  you  burst  upon 
the  London  firmainent. 

I — who  con  remember  witnessing  a  departure 
for  Cremorne — I,  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  remem- 
ber much  older  and  almost  as  strange  things. 
I  remember  peg-top  trowsers,  skin-tight  trowsers-, 
bell-shaped  trowsers,  though  I  can't  fix  the  epoch 
of  any  of  these  phenomena;  and  I  can  remember 
when  we  deliberately  wore  our  trowsers  so  long 
that  we  trod  upon  them  with  our  heels  and 
frayed  them;  and  that  was  in  1880-1. 

120 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

But  all  I  ask  that  you  should  fix  is  the  date  of 
the   deliberately    dawdy    well-dressed    man.   .   .   . 

I  think,  he  writes,  9.  8.  20,  that  the  time  has 
come  for  you  to  write  .  .  .  a  big  political  novel, 
a  big,  serious,  flippant,  earnest,  sarcastic,  political 
novel.  .  .  ,  Your  book  should  be  quite  Disrael- 
ian  in  scope;  it  should  be  a  roman  a  clef  to  this 
extent,  that  it  would  contain  half — or  quarter- 
portraits;  and  you  ought  to  concentrate  on  it 
very  thoroughly.  I  am  convinced  that  the  world 
is  waiting  for  it. 

Do  you  observe  the  comparative  sweetness  of 
my  mood.  It  is  doojned  entirely  to  this  glorious 
weather.  For  the  rest,  I  hope  and  believe  that 
you  never  resent  those  zvhacks  with  which,  when 
the  sky  is  overcast,  I  am  apt  to  belabour  my  cor- 
respondents like  an  elderly  Mr.  Punch  on  his 
hustings. 

My  good,  kind  Brighton  doctor — good  because 
he  is  clever,  kind  because  he  charges  me  no  fee 
— was  over  here  from  Brighton  y  day  to  see  me. 
He  tells  me  that  this  peculiar  susceptibility  of 
mine  to  atmospheric  influence  is  a  sympto^n  of 
convalescence  rather  than  ill-health.  He  is  much 
pleased  with  the  improvement  in  my  condition; 
and  he  approves  of  my  winter  plans,  though  he 
would  rather  have  dispatched  me  to  San  Remo 
or  even  Egypt  had  either  been  feasible. 

121 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Read  Max  on  Swinburne  in  the  Fortnightly 
Review  when  you  get  the  chance  and  contrast  it 
with  George  Moore' s  account  of  his  visit  to  Swin- 
burne, in  which  he  can  only  tell  us  that  he  found 
the  poet  naked  in  bed.  I  forget  where  it  oc- 
curs.  .  .   . 

In  answering  this  letter  I  pointed  out  that 
Disraeli  avoided  the  great  political  issues  of 
the  days  in  which  he  was  writing  and  that  any 
author,  such  as  H.  G.  Wells  in  The  Neiv 
Machiavelli,  Granville  Barker  in  JVaste  and 
H.  M.  Harwood  in  the  Grain  of  Mustard 
Seed,  who  attempts  a  political  theme  is  al- 
most bound  to  impale  himself  on  one  or  other 
horn  of  a  dilemma ;  if  his  novel  or  play  revolve 
round  a  living  controversy  such  as  the  right 
to  strike  in  war-time  or  the  justice  of  order- 
ing reprisals  in  Ireland,  the  theatre  may  be- 
come the  scene  of  a  nightly  riot  and  the  critics 
will  consider  their  own  political  preferences 
more  earnestly  than  the  literary  merits  of  the 
book;  if  the  action  of  play  or  novel  be  based 
on  a  dead  or  unborn  controversy,  it  will  fail 
to  arouse  the  faintest  interest.  I  was  sure 
that  the  other  admirers  of  the  three  works 

122 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Maftos 

which  I  quoted  were  unmoved  by  the  endow- 
ment of  motherhood,  by  educational  reform 
and  by  housing  schemes. 

In  reply,  Teixeira  wrote,  ii.    8.  20: 

.  .  .  Don't  slay  the  siigyestions  of  the  big 
political  novel  ojf-hand  or  outright.  I  mean  a 
bigger  thing  than  you  do;  a  thing  that  not  Wells 
nor  Barker  nor  Harzvood  .  .  .  could  write, 
whereas  you,  I  think,  could;  a  thing  as  big  as 
Coningsby;  a  thing  called  The  Secretary  of  State 
or  The  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  or  some  such 
frank  affair  as  that. 

You  have  kept  up  a  ''very  average"  logical 
position  in  life.  You  know  a  number  of  states- 
men, but  you  know  only  those  whom  you  like  and 
you  like  only  those  zvhom  you  esteem.  Your  por- 
traits of  those  whom  you  esteem  could  not  offend 
them;  your  sketch  even  of  a  genial  rogue  .  .  . 
could  not  offend  him;  and  you  don't  or  ought  not 
to  care  if  your  daguerreotypes  of  S.,  M.  and  B. 
offended  them  or  not.   .  .   . 

Incidentally  you  might  do  no  little  good,  to 
Ireland,  which  should  have  been  your  native  land, 
to  England,  which  by  your  own  choice  remains 
your  home,  and  to  the  world  in  general,  to  which 
I  hope  that  you  bear  no  ill-will.   .  .   . 

123 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

In  his  next  letter,  14.  8.  20,  he  returns  to 
the  same  subject: 

Your  letter  .  .  .  pretty  ivell  convinces  me,  at 
any  rate  about  the  Coningsby  novel.  Dizzy  never 
zvrote  about  the  period  in  which  he  was  just  then 
living.  All  his  novels  are  antedated  a  good  many 
years.  This  by  way  of  defending  him  against 
any  idea  that  he  ever  of  ended  by  betraying  private 
or  official  secrets  in  his  novels.   .   .  . 

One  of  Teixeira's  last  letters  (19.8.20) 
from  Crowborough  contained  a  translation 
of  the  terms  (already  quoted)  in  which 
Couperus  congratulated  him  on  his  version  of 
The  Tour'. 

Couperus  writes : 

''Your  last  envoi  has  given  me  a  most  delight- 
ful day.  What  a  magnificent  translation.  The 
Tour  is;  what  a  most  charming  little  book  it  has 
become!  I  am  in  raptures  over  it  and  read  and 
reread  it  all  day  and  have  had  tears  in  my  eyes 
and  have  laughed  over  it.  You  may  think  it 
silly  of  me  to  say  all  this;  but  it  has  become  an 
exquisitely  beautiful  work  in  its  English  form. 
My  warmest  congratulations!  .   .  . 

"Thank  McKenna  for  his  assistance:  the  hymn 
has    become    very    fine.     For    that    matter    the 

124 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

whole  hook  is  a  gem,  if  I  may  say  so  myself." 
So   I've   had  one  appreciative  reader  at  any 
rate!  .   .  . 

On  27.  8.  20  he  adds: 

Tell  Norman  [Major  Holden,  then  liberal 
candidate  for  the  Isle  of  Wight]  that,  shotdd 
there  be  an  election  in  "the  island"  before  I  leave 
Fentnor,  he'll  find  me  both  able  and  ready  to 
impersonate  the  oldest  inhabitant  and  gallop  to 
the  polling-station,  in  my  bath-chair,  and  vote  for 
him.   .  .  . 

And,  finally,  in  praise  of  toleration: 

J/  August  ig20   (being  the  birthday  of  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen  of  the  Netherlands). 
It  won't  do  to  insist  on  this  racial  aspect  of 
things.     I  was  never  of  those  who  called  L.  G. 
a  damned  little  fVelsh  solicitor.     He  would  have 
been  just  the  same  had  be  been  Scotch  or  English 
or  Irish.     After  all,  our  friend  R.  is  little  and 
JVelsh  and  was  a  solicitor  and  zcill  as  likely  as 
not  be  damned  if  he  doesn't  join  his  wife's  church. 
And  there  is  the  converse  case,  when  you  hear 
men  describing  an  outrage  committed  by  English- 
men as  "unenglish."     How  can  the  things  be  un-  ) 
I  english  which  the  English  do? 

125 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Like  yourself,  the  late  JV.  H.  Smith  was 
shocked  when  Parnell  stood  up  and  told  the  House 
of  Commons  .  .  .  that  he  had  lied  to  them  in 
the  interests  of  his  country.  I  like  to  think  of 
you  as  occupying  a  subtler  and  more  philosophi- 
cal standpoint  than  the  late  W .  H.  Smith.   .   .   . 

I  continue  to  feel  better;  and  the  arrival  of 
two  very  pretty  women  patients  has  loosed  my 
tongue  and  given  me  an  outlet  for  many  a  child- 
ish and  innocent  jest.     I  excuse   these   jests   by 
[   saying  that  they're  due  to  Minerva. 

'Who's  Minerva?" 
\        ''Mi-nervous  breakdown.     By  the  way,  I  hope 
you  like  your  Jiff" 

"Our  'Alf?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Your  al-f-resco  meals." 

Just  like  that!  .   .   . 


126 


XI 


For  the  next  few  days  Teixeira  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  preparations  for  leaving  Crow- 
borough.  On  arriving  in  London,  he  came 
to  stay  with  me  until  he  and  his  wife  went  to 
the  Isle  of  Wight  for  the  autumn  and  winter. 

In  acknowledging,  on  1.9.  20  his  instruc- 
tions about  the  diet  on  which  he  now  lived,  I 
wrote : 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  written  on  the 
anniversary  of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  of  the 
Netherlands.  Do  not  forget  to  date  any  letters 
you  may  write  on  Friday  the  anniversary  of 
Naseby,  the  crowning  mercy  of  JVorcester  and  the 
death  of  O.  Cromwell. 

Teixeira  interpolated  here: 

(And  the  birthday  of  my  late  aunt  Judith  Teix- 
eira.) 

On  2.  9.  20  he  writes : 

Dodd  [Dodd,  Mead  and  Co.  Inc.]  is  going  to 
reissue    [Couperus']     Majesty    in    America    and 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

zvoiild  like  you  to  write  a  preface  to  it.  .  .  .  JVill 
you  do  this?  I  should  very  much  like  you  to.  It 
involves  re-reading  the  book,  I  fear;  but  after 
that  you  zmll  not  have  much  to  do  except  to  draw 
an  analogy  between  the  hero  and  the  poor  Czar, 
on  whose  character  the  recent  articles  in  the 
Times  have  thrown  an  interesting  light. 

I  reminded  Teixeira  that  I  had  never  read 
Majesty^  as  I  had  never  been  able  to  secure 
a  copy. 

You're  perfectly  right,  he  replied  on  5.  9.  20. 
ril  bring  the  only  copy  in  the  world,  that  I  know 
of,  in  my  suit-case. 

You  will  be  able  to  point  to  some  remarkable 
prophecies  on  C's  part  (he  foretold  the  Hague 
Conference  years  before  it  happened)  and,  for 
the  rest,  to  let  yourself  go  as  you  please  on  high 
continental  dynastic  politics.  I  doubt  if  any 
zvriter  ever  entered  into  the  soul  of  princes  as  this 
astonishing  youth  of  25  or  so  did.   .   .   . 

I  propose  to  revise  Majesty  so  thoroughly  that 
I  shall  be  entitled  to  eliininate  Ernest  Dowson's 
name  from  the  title-page,  even  as  I  eliminated 
John  Gray's  from  that  of  Ecstacy.  There  was 
no  true  collaboration  in  either  case ;  and  they  did 
little  more  for  me  than  you  did  in  Old  People: 

128 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

not  so  much  as  you  did  in  The  Tour.     Neither 
had  the  original  before  him. 

I  look  forward  greatly  to  my  stay  with  you  .  .  . 
Eimar  O' Duffy  [the  author  of  The  Wasted  Is- 
land] has  been  married  by  another  novelist  and 
has  gone  to  live  with  her  in  a  cottage  in  Wexford. 
She  spells  her  name  Cathleen;  and  he  has  sent 
me  his  early  poems,  in  which  he  spelt  his  name 
Eimhar.  He  tells  me  that  this  spelling  was 
abandoned  because  it.  didn't  look  well;  this  I  ac- 
cept. He  adds  that  it  is  pronounced  Avar:  this 
I  do  not  believe.  .  .  . 

On  leaving  me,  Teixeira  wrote  24.  9.  20  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  reached  Ventnor  without 
mishap : 

This  is  not  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  any 
letter  from  you  that  may  or  may  not  be  awaiting 
me  at  the  County  Cff  Castle  Club,  an  edifice  into 
which  I  have  not  yet  made  my  comital  and  cas- 
tellated entry.  Rather  is  it  to  announce  my  safe 
arrival,  after  four  hours  of  wearying  travel,  and 
my  complete  revival,  after  ten  hours  of  refresh- 
ing sleep,  and  to  repeat  my  thanks  for  your  ut- 
terly exceptional  and  debonnair  hospitality. 

The  first  impression  of  Ventnor  is  favour- 
able.  .   .  . 

129 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

This  pococurantist  attitude,  if  I  may  employ 
a  phrase  beloved  by  Teixeira,  was  not  sup- 
ported by  his  wife  in  the  postscript  which 
she  added: 

Poor  fellow,  he  was  so  tired  travelling  and  so 
good  over  it.  This  place  one  could  wear  rags  in, 
it's  so  antiquated;  and  we  shall  return  confirmed 
frumps  and  bores.  There  is  some  miniature 
beauty  in  a  low  hill  and  a  tinkly  pier  that  would 
be  blown  away  in  a  quarter  of  a  gale.   .   .   . 

I  have  seen  the  sun  and  feel  reasonably  well 
and  happy,  Teixeira  proclaims  in  a  second  letter 
on  the  same  day.   .   .   . 

From  the  end  of  September  to  the  end  of 
December,  when  I  left  England,  our  letters 
' — though  we  corresponded  almost  daily  were 
much  taken  up  with  business  matters.  I 
therefore  only  reproduce  such  extracts  as 
throw  light  on  Teixeira's  literary  opinions 
and  on  his  life  at  Ventnor. 

My  dear  Stephen,  loyal  and  true,  he  writes  on 
3.  lo.  20;  A  thousand  thanks  for  Lady  Lilith, 
with  its  charming  dedication,  and  for  your  let- 
ter. .  .  .  I  cannot  well  lend  you  the  Repington 
volumes.     I   have   them  from   the    Times  Book 

130 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Club,  zvhich  is  all  that  my  poor  wife  has  to  supply 
her  with  books.  But  seriously  I  advise  you  to 
buy  them.  They  are  as  admirable  as  they  are 
beastly.  They  form  a  perfect  record  of  the  war 
as  you  and  I  saw  it;  you  will  refer  to  them  often 
in  years  to  come;  they  mention  every  one  that  I 
know  (except  yourself)  and  a  host  more,  every 
one  that  you  know  and  a  few  more;  and  there  is 
a  very  full  index  to  them.  .  .   . 

No,  do  not  send  me  the  Tree  book:  it  will 
arrive  in  the  next  parcel  from  the  Times  Book 
Club.  .  .  . 

There  follows  an  account  of  a  charac- 
teristic dialogue  between  Teixeira  and  his 
dentist: 

New  (enumerating  every  action,  like  a  comic- 
con  fur  er) :     ''Spray!" 

Tex:     "Oremus!".   .  . 

/  wish,  he  writes  on  6.  lo.  20,  that  I  had  no 
correspondent  but  you:  what  good  stuff  I  could 
write  to  you!  But  ig  letters  in  one  day:  think 
of  it!  .  .   . 

My  age  is  a  melancholy  one.  The  man  of  ^0 
or  60  sees  all  his  acquaintances  and  friends  dying 
of  in  ones  and  twos:  Heinemann  and  William- 
son to-day;  who  will  it  be  to-morrowf     When 

131 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

he's  yo,  he  begins  to  he  a  sole  survivor,  ivith  no 
friends  left  to  lose. 

You  vcill  find  the  Tree  hook  amusing  as  you  go 
on  with  it.  Four-fifths  of  it  represent  the  life  of 
a  dead  fairy  told  hy  living  fairies,  one  wittier  and 
more  whimsical  than  the  others.  I  confess  to 
tittering  over  Viola's  ''screwing  their  screws  to 
the  sticking -point"  and  "peacocks  held  in  the 
leash."  And  that's  a  glorious  portrait  of  Julius, 
though,  when  I  knew  him,  he  was  more  mature 
and  more  majestic.   .   .   . 

On  II.  lo.  20  he  breaks  into  verse : 
My  very  dear  Stephen  McKenna, 
I'm  reading  your  Lilith  again, 
With  much  intellectual  pleasure 
And  some  little  physical  pain. 
This  jingle  shaped  itself  within  my  head 
As  I  stepped  to  my  table  from  my  bed. 

It' s  that  physical  pain  I'm  after  for  the  present. 
The  book  hurts  my  eyes.  .  .   . 

I've  had  a  little  petty  cash  from  the  Couperus 
books.  It's  been  amusing  to  see  that  Small  Souls 
in  a  given  six  months  produces  75  times  as  much 
in  America  as  in  this  benighted  country.   .   .  . 

Though  he  commonly  kept  his  religion  and 
politics  to  himself,  Teixeira's  sympathy  with 

132 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 
the    Irish    moved    him    to   write,    27.10.20: 

I'm  angrily  unhappy  at  the  death  of  McSwiney. 
To  kill  a  man  with  a  face  like  that!  Compare 
the  faces  of  those  who  killed  him!  .   .   . 

It's  a  brute  of  a  world  that  the  sun  is  shining 
on  so  brightly.  .  .   . 

I  had  contemplated  spending  the  winter  in 
a  voyage  up  the  Amazon,  but  abandoned  it 
in  favour  of  one  down  the  east  coast  of  South 
America.     Teixeira   comments,   29.10.20: 

Your  new  voyage  is  the  more  sensible  and  in- 
teresting by  far.  What's  Amazon  to  you  or  you 
to  Amazon?  I  pictured  you  and  trembled  for 
you,  steaming  slowly  up  that  mighty  river  be- 
tween alligators  taking  pot-shots  at  you  with  pois- 
oned pea-shooters  from  one  bank  and  humming- 
birds yapping  split  infinitives  at  you  from  the 
other.  You  will  be  much  better  off  on  board  your 
goodish  coasting   tramp.   .  ,   . 

.  .  .  It  interested  me,  he  adds,  20,  10.  20, 
to  read  in  this  morning's  Times  that  Brazilian 
stock  has  risen  a  couple  of  points  at  the  nezvs  of 
your  contemplated  visit.  I  hope  that  Argentine 
rails  will  follow  suit.  .   .   . 

[A  lady]  when  returning  Shane  Leslie's  book, 

133 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ivhich  I  had  lent  to  her  and  she  enjoyed  .  .  .  had 
the  asinine  effrontery  to  ivrite  to  me  .  .  .  of 
"McSwiney's  farcical  death."  Isn't  it  dreadful  to 
think  that  the  world  has  given  birth  to  women 
who  can  write  like  that? 

Can  death  ever  be  farcical?  We  know  that 
the  epithet  is  wholly  inapposite  in  the  present  in- 
stance. But  can  death  ever  be  farcical?  I  told 
you,  I  think,  of  Major  Johnson,  who,  throwing 
hot  coppers  from  the  balcony  of  the  Grand  Hotel 
in  Paris  at  the  crowd  cheering  Kruger,  overbal- 
anced himself,  fell  to  the  pavement  and  was  killed. 
That  is  the  nearest  approach  to  a  farcical  death 
that  I  can  think  of.  But  I  should  call  it  ironical. 
A  farcical  death.     Alas!  .   .  . 

On  31.  10.  20  he  writes : 

/  fear  you  will  have  a  hell  of  a  windy  time  at 
Deal  or  Dover  or  wherever  JValmer  Castle  has 
its  being  (JVahner  perhaps,  as  an  afterthought)  ? 
It  is  blowing  half  a  gale  here.  The  Dutch  say 
"to  lie  like  a  horse-thief."  The  English  ought 
to  say  "to  lie  like  a  guide-book."  One  lies  before 
me  at  this  moment: 

"In  fact,  Ventnor  is  a  sun-box;  and  the  east 
and  north  winds  would  have  to  confess  that  they 

134 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

have  not  even  a  visiting  acquaintance  with  her." 
At  the  same  moment,  these  self-same  winds  are 

''a-sharting  in  my  ear" : 

"fVe   don't   confess    to    nothink    of   the   sort! 
Ho,  leave  us  in  yer  will  before  yer  die!" 

'Tis  well  to  be  you,  looking  forward  to  sailing 

the  Spanish  Alain.  .  .  . 

Of  Philip  Guedalla's  Supers  and  Super- 
men^ Teixeira  writes,  7.  11.  20: 

/  have  got  it  out  of  the  Times  Book  Club  be- 
cause of  a  kindly  notice.  There  are  two  or  three 
delicious  plums  in  it.   .   .   . 

Among  the  happy  phrases  is  one — "nudging 
us  with  his  inimitably  knowing  inverted  commas" 
— to  which  I  \would  in  my  mean,  Parthian  way 
call  your  attention,  as  bearing  upon  one  of  our 
recent  controversies.   .  .   . 

What  is  B.  N.  C,  a  N oxford  college  mentioned 
in  Galsworthy's  book?  ^  he  asks,  10,11.20. 
Bras  (fz)  enosf    Hozv  I  hate  these  initials!  .   .   . 

On  St.  Stanislaus'  Day,  he  writes: 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  of  yesterday 
(zvhich  was  the  eve  of  St.  Stanislaus)  .  .  .  I 
have  no   .   .   .   bright  social  news  for  you. 

1  In  Chancery. 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Yet  stay. 

A  card  was  left  upon  me,  a  few  days  ago,  by 
Captain  Cave-Brown-Cave,  R.  N.,  with  a  verbal 
message: 

"fFoidd  Mr.  T eixeira-de-M attos-T eixeira  care 
for  a  rubber  of  bridge  one  afternoon  f 

Yesterday  I  accepted  the  soft  invitation  and 
took  i^/-  of  Captain  Cave-Brown-Cave  and  his 
fellow  troglodytes.  This  would  have  been  £'J  at 
my  normal  points. 

These  are  our  island  adventures. 

Here  is  your  Inevitable. 

Make  me  a  list  (zvill  you?)  of  people  who  to 
your  knowledge  have  entreated  me  hospitably 
during  the  past  twelve-month,  so  that  I  may  send 
them  copies  of  this  or  some  other  book  when 
Christmas  co7neth  round. 

With  their  addresses,  please,  of  which  I  re- 
memhreth  not  one  single  one.   .   .   . 

I  had  been  recommended  to  go  from  Buenos 
Aires  across  the  Andes  to  Valparaiso  and  to 
come  home  by  Chile,  Peru  and  the  Panama 
Canal  rather  than  to  sail  twice  over  the  same 
course  between  Buenos  Aires  and  South- 
ampton. 

136 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Teixeira  comments  on  this  change  of  plans 
in  his  letter  of  i6.  1 1 .  20 : 

They  have  had  a  cyclone,  I  see,  at  "Baircs,"  as 
tJie  wireless  used  to  have  it  at  the  JV.  T.  I.  D; 
hut,  as  we  had  a  gale  y'day  at  Ventnor,  there's 
not  much  in  that.  On  the  other  hand,  how  do 
you  propose  to  travel  from  Baires  to  Paradise 
Valley?  I  ask  in  all  ignorance :  is  there  a  rail- 
way? I  know  there  are  Argentine  Rails;  but  are 
the  Andes  tunnelled?  If  not,  what  about  it? 
You  can  travel  from  London  to  Ventnor  via 
Cowes  but  also  via  Ryde;  in  my  days,  the  route 
from  Baires  to  Valparaiso  knew  but  one  method: 
to  Ride,  if  you  like,  but  to  Ride  via  Llamas.  Let 
me  warn  you,  a  llama  would  spit  in  your  eye  as 
soon  as  look  at  you.  And  you  not  knowing  a 
word  of  the  language!  How's  it  to  be  done, 
Stephen,  how's  it  to  be  done?  There  are  hits  of 
the  Andes  where  you  cross  a  crevasse,  llama  and 
all,  in  a  basket  slung  on  a  rope  which  stretches 
from  precipice  to  precipice.  Of  all  the  cinemato- 
graphic stunts!  Well,  there!  Have  you  a  nice 
revolver?  .  .   . 

.  .  .  Tell  me  what  you  think  that  you  are  go- 
ing to  eat  between  Baires  and  Valparaiso,  he  adds 
next  day.      They  grow  comparatively  few  fish  on 

137 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

the  slopes  or  even  on  the  crests  of  the  Andes.  .  .  . 
As  a  matter  of  curiosity,  write  to  me  to-morrow 
what  your  weather  was  like  now  at  g.i S  a.  m.  to- 
day. I  am  sitting  at  a  wide-open  window  actually 
perspiring   (saving  your  presence)   with  heat. 

I  reassured  him  as  best  I  could  (17.  11.  20)  : 

.  .  .  Those  who  know  tell  me  that  there  is  a 
perfectly  good  railway  from  Buenos  Aires  to  Val- 
paraiso with  a  permanent  way,  rolling  slock, 
points  and  signals,  tunnels  to  taste  and  all  the 
paraphernalia  that  one  might  buy  on  a  small  scale 
at  Hamley's  toy-shop.  The  Andes  ought,  of 
course,  to  be  crossed  on  mule-back,  but  this  takes 
long  and  I  do  not  know  any  mules.  Nor,  from 
your  exposition  of  their  habits,  am  I  desirous  of 
meeting  any  llamas.   ... 

My  faithful  Stephen,  many  thanks  for  your 
three  letters,  he  writes,  21.  11.20.  I've  been 
feeling  rather  out  of  sorts  these  last  few  days 
and  have  not  written  to  you  since  Thursday,  I 
believe;  not  that  I  have  much  to  tell  you  .  .  . 
except  that,  were  I  weller  and  stronger,  I  should 
write  and  offer  tny  sword  to  that  maligned  mon- 
arch, Constantine  I.  of  the  Hellenes.  I  am 
growing  heartily  sick  of  seeing  countries  meddling 
in   other  countries'  business.   .  .   . 

138 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

It  were  the  baldest  side  on  my  part,  he  confesses 
on  23.  II.  20  to  pretend  that  the  weather  here 
has  not  turned  cold.  The  winds  are  what  is 
known  as  bitter.  But  the  sun  is  shining  like 
blazes.  And  there  you  have  what  I  was  leading 
up  to:  once  bitter,  twice  shining. 

Ever  yours, 

Alexander  Crawshay. 

Not  content  with  emulating  Mrs.  Robert 
Crawshay's  wit  and  appropriating  her  name, 
Teixeira  laid  his  witticism  before  her  and 
challenged  her  to  say  that  it  was  not  of  the 
true  brand.  There  is  a  reference  to  this  in  a 
later  letter;  his  next  communication  was  a 
picture-postcard  of  Ventnor,  annotated  by 
himself : 

A.  [A  bathchair  man]      This  is   not  me. 

B.  [A  child  with  a  hoop]      Nor  is  this,  really. 

C.  [An  indistinguishable  figure]  This  might 
be. 

D.  [A  picture  of  the  hotel]  But  probably 
I  am  here,  lurking  in  the  Royal  Hotel,  where  I 
can  sea  the  sea  but  the  sea  can' t  see  ?ne. 

I  think  little  of  your  latest  joke,  I  wrote,  24. 
11.20,  and  have  myself  made  several  of  late 
that  put  yours  into  the  shade.      Thus,  on  learning 

139 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

tliat  a  woman  of  my  acquaintance  had  left  her 
rich  husband  and  run  away  with  a  penniless  lover, 
I  added  the  conclusion  that  they  were  now  living 
in  silver-gilty  splendour.  I  can  assure  you  that 
that  is  far  more  in  the  true  Crawshay  tradi- 
tion. .  .   . 

My  efifort  met  with  less  than  no  approval: 

My  poor  Stephen/,  Teixeu-a  wrote  25.  11.  20. 
The  worst  of  your  jokes,  when  you  attempt  to 
play  upon  words,  is  that  they  have  all  been  made 
before.  It  must  he  ^6  (thirty-six)  years  (I  said, 
years)  since  I  saw  at  the  old  Strand  Theatre  a 
play  called  Silver  Guilt  parodying  The  Silver 
King. 

/  am  glad  or  sorry,  whichever  I  should  be,  that 
your  arm  ^  has  taken  (arma  virumque  cano:  beat 
that  if  you  can!  Virus  poison,  ace.  (I  hope 
and  trust)  virum).   .   .   . 

My  conscience  smites  me,  he  writes,  26.  11. 
20,  for  having  omitted  in  either  of  my  last  two 
letters  to  express  the  sympathy  which  I  feel  with 
Seymour  Leslie — and  you — in  this  serious  illness 
of  his.  JFhat  is  it  exactly?  Whatever  it  may 
he,  I  hope  that  he  will  get  the  better  of  it.   .   .   . 

His  aunt  Crawshay  has  been  good  enough  to 

^  In    preparation    for    visiting    South    America    I    had    been 
vaccinated. 

140 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

pass  ''once  bitter,  twice  shining."  She  says  that 
it  "is  a  really  worthy  phrase  and  will  be  of  use  to 
us  all!" .   .   . 

I  have  been  reading  a  lot  of  French  lately,  in 
those  very  cheap,  double-columned,  illustrated 
editions.  It  is  perfectly  marvellous  to  see  how 
happily  the  French  draughtsmen  succeed  in  catch- 
ing their  authors'  ideas,  whereas  one  may  safely 
say  that  "our"  British  illustrators  do  not  catch 
them  once  in  ten  times.  Why  is  this?  I  am  not 
sure  that  a  certain  rough,  unwashed  Bohemiati- 
ism  is  not  at  the  bottom  of  it,  achieving  results 
which  are  beyond  that  prim,  priggish  mode  of 
life  zuhich  nowadays  governs  the  artists  on  this 
side.  I  may  be  wrong:  I  certainly  couldn't 
elaborate  my  theory;  on  the  other  hand,  I  may  be 
perfectly  right.   .   .   . 

In  an  earlier  letter  I  had  asked  why  he 
sought  a  refuge  where  he  could  see  the  sea  but 
where  the  sea  could  not  see  him.  The  answer 
is  given  in  a  postscript: 

/  7night  turn  giddy  if  the  sea  saw  me;  but  it 
would  look  very  ugly  if  I  saw  it. 

By  way  of   revenge   I   reminded  Teixeira 
that  the  gender  of  virus  was  neuter: 
Alas!,  he  replies,  27.  11.  20. 

141 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  suspected  it  at  the  time;  and  now  my  up- 
rooted hairs  are  heglooming  the  pink  geraniums 
below  my  window.  I  have  taken  my  oath;  and 
nc  w  you  and  I  are  pledged:  no  French,  you;  no 
Greek  or  Latin,  I.     It  may  he  all  for  the  best. 

And  arma  virusqus  cano  would  have  sounded 
so  much  better!  .  .   . 

Returning  to  the  subject  of  French  Illus- 
tration, he  adds,  28.  ii.  20: 

It's  the  knock-about,  rough-and-tumble ,  cafe  life 
i«  Paris  I  expect,  that  accounts  for  the  greater 
siiccess  of  the  French  illustrators.  They  all  of 
them  meet  all  the  authors  in  the  great  Bourse  a 
poignees  de  main  that  are  the  Paris  coffee-houses. 
The  subjects  are  discussed  over  a  thousand 
books ;  and  the  draughtsman  is  not  overpaid.  .  .  . 
What  I'm  "after"  is  this,  that  the  British  illus- 
trators, sitting  at  home  in  their  neatly-swept  flats 
or  studios,  decorated  mainly  with  Japanese  fans, 
furnished  with  wives  instead  of  mistresses,  that 
these  smug  dogs,  with  their  pappy  brains,  cannot 
turn  out  such  good  work  or  enter  so  well  into  the 
spirit  of  things,  as  the  Frenchman.  And,  if  all 
this  sounds  damned  immoral,  I  can't  help  it. 

The  shadow  of  Christmas  fell  across  Teix- 

142 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

eira's  mind  so  early  as  the  first  day  of  De- 
cember: 

/  ask  myself,  he  writes : 

"What  shall  I  give  this  Stephen?  A 
hook?  .  .  .  But  he's  got  a  book!  .  .  .  Ah, 
but  has  he  a  three-volume  novel?  No,  bedad! 
.  .  .  And,  as  I  live,  I  don't  believe  that  Violet 
Moses  is  included  in  his  collected  edition  of  the 
ivorks  of  that  mighty  zuriter,  Leonard  Merrick." 

So  here's  a  first  edition  for  you,  with  my  bless- 
ing. [Your  secretary]  should  try  to  remove  the 
labels  with  that  nastiest  of  utensils,  a  wet,  hot 
sponge.   .   .  . 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months  Teixeira 
was  driven  back  on  The  Wrong  Box  to  find 
an  adequate  comparison  with  the  informative 
newcomer  who  now  disturbed  the  noiseless 
tenour  of  his  way: 

Joseph  Finsbury  has  arrived,  he  writes, 
2.  12.  20.  Overhearing  me  tell  my  wife  that 
Bucharest  is  the  capital  of  Roumania,  he  leant 
forward  and  asked  me  if  I  had  been  to  Bucharest. 
Tex:     No. 

Joseph:     Oh,   I   thought  I    heard  you    mention 
Bucharest. 

143 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Tex:     I  sometimes  mention  places  which  I  have 
never  visited. 

Joseph:     Bucharest  is  a  second  Paris. 
Tex:     Grrrrrrrrmph! 

Joseph:      Though    I    daresay    it    has    been    de- 
stroyed by  notv. 

Tex:  (to  his  wife)  .  .Have  you  done  with  Fem- 
ina  ?  //  so,  I'll  give  it  to  those  Dutch  ladies. 
(Stalks  of  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  van  L.) 
Joseph:  (to  an  Irish  widow)  I  have  been  to 
all  the  capitals  of  Europe  .  .  .  (and  holds  the 
zvretched  Mrs.  N.  enthralled,  so  I  am  told,  for 
two  mortal  hours).   .   .   . 

Later.  Joseph  (to  [my  wife]  )  :  How  clever 
of  your  husband  to  speak  Dutch  to  those  ladies! 
[My  wife]  :  Not  at  all!  He's  a  Dutchman. 
Joseph:  I  know  Holland  very  well.  I  have  been 
to  Rotterdam.  I  have  been  to  Java.  The  finest 
botanical  gardens  in  the  world  are  at  Buitenzorg 
near  Batavia. 
[My  wife]  :     Re-e-ally! 

Can  you  Teixeira  asks,  2.  12,  20,  lend  me  that 
hook  by  James  Joyce  (Portrait  of  the  Artist), 
which  you  once  wrote  to  me  about?  I  see  Bar- 
hellion  praises  it  enthusiastically  in  the  new  diary. 

Would  you  like  me  to  lend  you  A  Last  Diary 
or  have  you  bought  it? 

Your  Uncle  Joseph  was  in  disgrace  yesterday. 

144 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

JVe  have  a  girl  trio  of  musicians  here,  who  play 
at  tea-time  and  eke  after  dinner.  The  pianist 
reports  that  he  said  to  her: 

"I  have  been  to  Japan.  I  was  very  ill  there 
and  I  found  myself  in  the  arms  of  a  Japanese 
woman." 

To-day  he  stopped  me  in  the  road  and  said: 
"I  wish  I  could  speak  Dutch,  sir,  as  well  as  you 
speak  English.     I  once  learnt  a  continental  lan- 
guage, but  I  mustn' t  speak  it  now.     What  it  was" 
(throwing  out  his  arms)   "you  can  guess.   .   .   ." 

I  had  read  Barbellion's  two  books  without 
sharing  Teixeira's  admiration  for  them,  in 
part  because  I  thought  that  a  book  of  self- 
revelation  so  unreserved  should  only  have 
been  published  posthumously,  in  part  because 
it  was  incongruous — ^to  use  no  stronger  word 
— to  find  a  man,  who  had  aroused  wide-spread 
compassion  by  what  was  taken  to  be  the  ac- 
count of  his  last  hours,  reading  with  relish 
the  sympathetic  press  notices  which  it  brought 
him. 

To  this  criticism  Teixeira  replies,  5.  12.  20: 

Thank  you  for  your  tivo  letters  and  the  loan 
of  James  Joyce.   .   .   .  Barbellion  I  like  and  aU 

145 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

most  love — /  should  love  him  entirely  but  for  a 
common  strain  in  him  that  makes  itself  heard 
occasionally — hut  then  I  was  taught  very  early 
in  life  to  make  every  allowance  for  men  of  any 
genius,  whereas  you  look  for  the  public-school 
attitude  towards  all  and  sundry.  Apart  from 
this,  B.  seems  to  me  to  have  borne  almost  unpar- 
alleled suffering  with  remarkable  courage  and  to 
have  shown  a  good  deal  of  pluck  besides  in  laying 
bare  his  soul  in  the  midst  of  it  all. 

You  see,  if  one  cared  to  take  the  pains,  one 
could  make  you  detest  pretty  well  everybody  you 
know  and  like.  For  everybody  has  a  mean, 
petty^  shabby,  cowardly  side  to  him;  and  one  has 
only  to  tell  you  of  what  the  man  in  question 
chooses  to  keep  concealed.  B.  chose  to  reveal 
it;  that's  all  about  it.   .   .   . 

My  wife  bids  you  be  sure  to  say  good-bye, 
when  you  go  on  your  travels,  to  the  woman, 
whoever  she  may  be,  in  whom  you  are  most  in- 
terested. Her  reason  is  that  she  dreamt  two 
nights  ago  that  you  were  prevented  from  doing 
so.  This  does  not  imply  that  you  will  not  return 
alive.  It  means  only  that  something  prevented 
you  from  saying  good-bye  to  that  person  and  that 
it  would  be  fun  to  stultify  the  dream.   .  .   . 

On  7.  12.  20  Teixeira  writes: 

146 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

.  .  .  I  am  reading  James  Joyce,  skippily.  The 
fellow  has  a  great  deal  of  talent,  but  much  of  it  is 
misdirected.  I  should  not  he  surprised  if  one  day 
he  began  to  write  books  that  he  and  his  country 
will  be  proud  of.   .   .   . 

Incidentally  I  admire  his  ruthless  suppression 
of  capitals  and  am  interested  in  his  ditto  ditto 
of  hyphens.   ... 

On  Christmas  Eve,  he  writes: 

Forgive  us  our  Christmases  as  we  forgive  them 
that  Christmas  against  us. 

fVhat  I  want  to  know  by  your  next  letter  and 
what  you  have  not  told  me,  though  you  may  think 
that  you  have,  is  hokv  you  propose  to  travel  home 
from  the  west  coast  of  South  America.   .   .   . 

And  on  27.  12.  20: 

/  zvas  asked  to  "recite"  yesterday!  I  refused. 
I  was  asked  to  take  part  in  a  hypnotic  experi- 
ment: would  I  rather  be  the  professor  or  the 
subject? 

"The  subject,"  I  replied.  "But  I  would  even 
rather  be  dead." 

And  on  29.  12.  20: 

.   .   .    This   is   the  last  letter   but  one   or    two 

147 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

which  I  shall  he  writing  to  yoii  before  you  sail  or 
puff  down  the  Solent.  .  .  .  Needless  to  add  that 
I  feel  sad  at  the  thought  of  your  im^ninent  de- 
parture and  glad  at  the  thought  that  you  appear 
to  feel  a  trifle  sad  too. 

The  Almanzora !  W ell,  God  speed  her 
across  the  Atlantic!  But  she's  got  a  plaguy  hair- 
dressing  name.  On  my  dressing-table  stand  two 
bottles  and  two  only.  One  contains  Anzora 
cream;  the  other  Pandora  brilliantine.  Both  are 
meant  to  preserve  and  beautify  my  already  well- 
preserved  and  beautiful  hair.  I  must  try  to  "be- 
come" some  Almanzora  to  keep  them  com- 
pany.  .   .   . 


148 


XIII 

The  diary  which  Teixeira  kept  for  me 
during  my  absence  in  South  America  was, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  his  first  venture  in 
this  kind  of  literature.  Approaching  it  with 
trepidation,  he  abandoned  it  with  loathing. 
The  mystery  of  a  double  cash-column  quickly 
palled;  and  he  was  not  long  intrigued  even 
by  printed  reminders  of  the  moon's  phases  and 
of  the  days  on  which  dividends  and  insurance- 
policy  renewals  became  due. 

30  December  1920. 

As  a  large  number  of  these  Diaries  circulate 
abroad  it  may  be  well  to  point  out  that  the  As- 
tronomical Data,  such  as  phases  of  the  moon  etc. 
are  given  in  Greenwich  time. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well,  Teixeira  concurs, 
30.  12.  20. 

31  December  1920. 

/  did  not  see  the  old  year  out.  I  played  i / — 
bridge  in  the  afternoon  at  Captain  Cave-Brown- 

149 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Cave's,  with  him,  Captain  B.  and  Dr.  F.  and  won 

£ — 18.0. 
which  at  normal  points  would  have  been  g.  5.  0. 
(I  presume  that  is  what  the  right-hand  column 
is  for.  But  the  left-hand  columnf  Ah,  thai 
left-hand  column!  .   .   .) 

The  last  that  I  saw  of  the  old  year  was  a  68- 
7-0,  grey-haired  parson  in  pumps  and  a  prince- 
consort  moustache  and  whiskers  waltzing  a  polka, 
or  polkering  a  waltz — in  short,  dancing  soiuething 
exceedingly  modern — with  a  15-7-0  flapper. 
Then  we  went  to  bed,  wondering  how  Stephen 
was  spending  his  New  Year's  Eve,  on  board  the 
Almanzora,  in  a  south-ivesterly  gale. 

Saturday,  i  January. 

JVhen  at  5. JO  /  switched  on  my  light  and 
rose,  I  saw  a  leprechaun  standing  on  my  writing- 
table,  looking  like  a  little  sandzvich-man.  Fear- 
lessly I  approached;  and  he  changed  into  a  bottle 
of  eau-de-Cologne  with  an  envelope  slung  round 
his  neck,  inscribed,  ''To  my  Best  Beloved." 
Mark  [my  wife's]  bold  capitals.  And  show 
me  another  couple  whose  united  ages  amount  to 
I ly  years  or  more  and  who  still  do  this  sort  of 
thing.     O  olden  times  and  olden  manners!  .  .  . 

150 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Monday,  3  January. 

Bridge  at  Cave's  with  Captain  B.  and  Dr.  C. 

[My  wife:]  "What  did  you  talk  about  at 
tea?" 

Tex:  "Jam." 

This  question  and  answer  never  vary,  after  my 
return  from  a  visit  to  the  C.-B.-C's.   .  .   . 

I  foresee  that  this  compilation  is  going  to  rival 
the  Diary  of  a  Nobody.  And  I  am  pledged  to 
keep  it  up  until  the  yth  of  March.  Kismet! 
Or,  as  the  dying  Nelson  said,  "Kismet,  Hardy." 

Wednesday,  5  January. 
Dividends  due  What  dividends? 

Sunday,  9  January. 

Thank  goodness  that  I  have  only  space  to 
thank  goodness  that  I  have  only  space  wherein 
...   ad  Infinitum.   .   .   . 

Thursday,  13  January. 

Received  from  Stephen  s  mother  his  letter  to 
his  mother.  .   .   . 

Received  from  Lady  D.  Stephen's  letter  to 
[her]  and  wrote  to  her  in  appropriate  terms,  ex- 
pressing   doubts    upon    Stephen's    dietary    zvhile 

151 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

crossing  the  South-American  continent,  where 
there  are  neither  fish  nor  eggs,  save  the  eggs  of 
condors  and  hummingbirds.   .   .   . 

Friday,    14  January. 

.  .  .  My  bank-balance  is  overdrawn,  but  I 
make  ig/6  at  bridge. 

.  .  .  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hugh  Martin  arrive.  I 
do  not  know  if  this  is  the  Daily  News'  Irish  cor- 
respondent whom  the  Black  and  Tans  wanted  to 
murder. 

Tuesday,   18  January. 

Begin  Couperus'  Iskander :  The  novel  of 
Alexander  the  Great;  tivo  enormous  volumes, 
which  I  may  hardly  live  to  translate.  It  is  a 
great  joy  to  see  this  artist  building  up  his  story 
with  frm  and  elegant  perfection  from  the  very 
frst  page,  with  conviction  and  a  fine  self-con- 
fidence, no  grouping,  no  floundering,  no  hesita- 
tion.  .   .   . 

Saturday,  23  January. 

Need  something  happen  every  day  at  Vent- 
nor?     Danged  if  there  need! 

Monday,  24  January. 

.   .   .    The  new  rich  arrive,  Rolls-Royce  and  all. 

152 


Alexander   Teixeira  de  Mattos 
Tuesday,  25,  January. 

Those  new  rich!  So  new,  so  rich,  so  drearily 
unostentatious!  Young  new  richard  bald,  pan- 
snayed,  ill-dressed;  young  new  wife  and  sister-in- 
law  dozvdy ;  young  new  secretary  without  a  dinner- 
jacket  to  his  backside;  young  new  baby  and  young 
new  nurse  all  over  the  place;  young  new  Rolls- 
Royce,  careering  over  the  island,  the  only  sign  of 
wealth. 

If  only  there  were  a  few  diamonds,  a  few 
banded  cigars,  a  few  h's  dropping  on  the  floor 
with  a  didl  thud,  one  could  at  least  laugh.  But 
the  drabness,  the  gloom  of  these  particular  new 
rich:  O  my  lungs  and  O  my  liver!  .   .   . 

Thursday,  27  January. 

It  is  terrible,  the  number  of  people  who  come 
to  this  hotel;  and  I  regret  the  pleasant,  non- 
"paying"  days  when  we  zvere  six  visitors  and  three 
musicians,  with  a  full  staff  of  servants  to  wait  on 
us.  There  are  now  over  thirty  people  at  meals, 
one  uglier  than  the  other.  And  as  soon  as  one 
goes  two  others  take  his  place.   .   .   . 

Sunday,  30  January. 

.  .  .  To  bed  at  5,  with  my  "special  dinner'^ 
at   J,   John  Francis    Taylor's   meal:     "Give   me 

153 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

so77ie  milk;  and  let  the  milk  he  hot.    And  give  me 
some  bread;  and  let  the  bread  be  inside  the  milk." 

Monday,  3 1  January. 

The  Insurance  herein  contained  is  not  valid 
until  your  name  has  been  registered. 

/    don't    care.      Yer    can    'ave    the    insurance. 
The  new  rich  have  some  business  visitors. 

Tuesday,   i   February. 

.  .  .  Departure  of  the  new  riches'  little  thyn- 
dicate  of  friends. 

Arrival  of  ihe  dividend  on  my  Benson  ^ 
Hedges'  10%  2nd  pref.,  the  only  shares  wherein 
I  have  ever  invested  that  have  ever  paid  any 
dividend  whatever.  Lord,  how  I  have  moiled 
and  toiled  to  sink  money  in  stumer  companies! 
Shrewsburry  ^  Talbot  Hansoms!  Galician  Oil- 
field^! Rubber  substitutes!  Cork  substitutes! 
Tampico-Panuco  Deferred!  United  Transport 
Co.!  In  the  three  last  I  still  have  hold- 
ings: about  £2^0  in  all.  And  the  things  that 
I  have  inherited:  thousand  of  dollars'  worth 
of  Mexican  (and  Turkish  and  Hungarian  and 
Russian)  rubbish,  which  would  barely  fetch  a 
tenner,  all  told!  ... 

154 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Thursday,  3  February. 

.  .  .  The  new  arrivals  include  a  long,  lean 
man  .  .  .  and  his  wife.  His  hair  is  dyed  to 
suggest  SS;  he  is  probably  a  cadaverous  JJ .  He 
comes  down  to  dinner  in  a  white  tie  and  tails.' 
His  digestion  is  of  the  weakest.  He  refuses 
soup,  leaves  the  fish,  refuses  a  cutlet,  leaves  the 
goose  and  seems  to  dine  mainly  on  creme  Beau 
Rivage,  which  is  a  creme  carmel  decorated  with 
a  blob  of  whipped  cream  and  angelica.  His  con- 
versation with  his  wife  consists  purely  of  whis- 
pered smiles. 

Friday,   4  February, 

/  received  letters  from  Stephen  to  me  and 
from  Stephen  to  his  mother.  I  have  still  to  re- 
ceive a  letter  from  Stephen  to  Lady  D.   .   .   . 

On  his  return  he  will  borrow  from  me  Frank 
Harris'  second  series  of  Contemporary  Portraits, 
just  arrived  from  New  York. 

There  is  no  bridge  at  the  Home-Sweet-Homes. 
I  go  to  the  club,  play  with  P.  the  local  solicitor; 
Dr.  W .,  of  Harrogate;  Mr.  S.,  of  the  same  and 
win  the  sum  of  £ 2j/^^. 

Saturday,  5  February  and 
^55 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Sunday,  6  February 

/in  episode  of  "And  oh,  the  children  s  voices 
in  the  lounge!"  zvas  followed  by  my  going  to 
tlie  office  and  saying: 

"I  am  going  to  bed  lest  these  children  be  the 
death  of  me.  May  I  have  a  spefial  dinner, 
please?" 

"Certainly.      IFhat  zvould  you  like?" 

"Send  me  some  milk  and  let  the  milk  be  hot. 
And  send  me  some  bread  and  let  the  bread  be  in- 
side the  milk." 

Next  morning,  having  slept  eight  hours  and 
fifteen  minutes,  I  went  to  the  manageress  and: 

"People,"  I  said,  "are  far  too  proud  of  their 
children  and  too  fond  of  displaying  them  in 
public.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  wonderful  about 
parentage  and  nothing  clever.  Most  people  are 
parents.  I  have  been  one  myself.  .  .  .  Children 
should  be  seen  and  not  heard.  .  .  .  If  they  raise 
their  voices  in  the  public  rooms,  they  should  be 
sent  to  their  bedrooms.  Some  zvould  suggest  the 
coal-hole;  but  I,  as  you  know,  have  a  gentle 
heart.  .  .  .  Remember  that  we  live  in  an  age 
of  reprisals.  The  privilege  of  screaming  and 
yelling  is  not  confined  to  children.  Adults  enjoy 
equal  rights.  Next  time  a  child  raises  its  voice 
in  my  presence,  I  shall  in  quick  succession  bellow 

156 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

like  a  bull,  roar  like  a  lion,  howl  like  a  jackal^ 
laugh  like  a  hyena.  If  you  drive  me  to  it,  I  shall 
copy  all  the  shriller  domestic  animals.  .  .  .  The 
matter  is  now  in  yoitr  hands." 

Monday,   7   February. 

Peace  reigns  at  Ventnor.  .  .  . 

Wednesday,  16  February. 

.  .  .  I  start  my  sock-and-tie  stunt,  which  con- 
sists in  "copycatting"  daily,  Justin  Read  second- 
ing, an  absurd  young  man  of  half  my  age.  Thus 
do  the  elderly  amuse  themselves  for  the  further 
amusement  of  a  limited  circle.  .  .   . 

Tuesday,    22    February. 

Stephen  s  letter  of  20.  1.21  to  his  mother 
arrives.  [I  again  varied  my  itinerary  and  had 
decided  to  make  my  way  to  Valparaiso  through 
the  Straits  of  Magellan  rather  than  across  the 
Andes.]  So  he  is  travelling  in  the  wake  of 
H.  M.  S.  Beagle  and  the  late  Charles  Robert 
Darwin!  He'll  be  perished  with  cold;  but  he's 
more  likely  to  get  a  fish  or  tzvo  to  eat.   .   .   . 

Sunday,  27   February. 

Stephen's  birthday.  His  health  shall  be  drunk 
in  brimming  barley-water;  and,  though  I  believe 

157 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

he  has  already  had  a  birthday-present,  he  shall 
have  a  copy  of  The  Tour  the  moment  it  arrives. 
Good  luck  to  him! 

P.  S.  Absolutely  a  good  notice  of  The  Tour 
in  the  Sunday  Times.  My  wife  says  that  the 
critic  must  have  been  drunk. 

Monday,  28  February, 

Arrival  of  a  terrible  Yorkshire  group,  two  men 
and  a  woman.  .  .  .  They  foregather  with  .  .  . 
a  man  who  appears  in  carpet-slippers,  like  Kipps, 
and  talk  of  nothing  but  food,  in  broad  Leeds. 

Tuesday,   i   March. 

.  .  .  "Ah  had  hum-und-eggs  to  my  breakfast 
this  morning.  Ah  was  always  partial  to  hum- 
und-eggs  for  breakfast.  .  .  .  Ah  had  new  potai- 
i-toes  ut  the  dinner.  Ah  said  to  McKanner, 
'These  are  too  good  to  pass.*  We  had  summon 
zvith  'em,  summon  und  new  potai-i-itoes." 

They  seem  to  be  bank-managers  and  to  have 
dined  with  Reggie  at  sotfie  London  City  and 
Midland  Bank-wet.   .  .   . 

Thursday,  3  March. 

T.  takes  me  to  East  Dene,  the  childhood  home 
of  Swinburne,  now  a  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

158 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  am  shown  over  the  entrancing  grounds  by  the 
Mother  Superior.  Before  taking  me  into  the 
chapel: 

"You  are  not  a  catholic,  I  suppose?''  she  asks. 

"Indeed  I  am." 

"I  vie  an,  a  Roman  catholic?" 

"Reverend  mother,  are  there  any  others?" 

"Oh,  they  all  call  themselves  Anglican  cath- 
olics nowadays!" 

Then  on  to  Craigie  Lodge,  where  Pearl 
Hobbes  pesters  the  tenants  zvith  trivial  spirit- 
messages. 

Home,  feeling  cold  as  death.   .   .   . 

Saturday,  5  March. 

.  .  .  I  ani  correcting  proofs  of  The  Three 
Eyes  for  Hurst  &'  Blackett.  Altogether  I  shall 
have  four  books  out  this  spring. 

The  Tour,  Butterworth. 

The  Three  Eyes,  Hurst  &'  Blackett. 

Majesty,  Dodd. 

More  Hunting  Wasps,  Dodd. 

Not  so  bad  for  an  ozvld,  infirm  mahnf 

Sunday,  6  March. 

It  is  pleasant  to  see  the  sun  gain  strength 
daily,  with  every   sort  of  flower  appearing,   al- 

159 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

mond-hlossoms  in  full  swing,  cherry-blossoms  hard 
at  it  and  pear-blossoms  inaking  a  beginning. 

Monday,  7  March. 

Departure  of  [the  married  Yorkshire  visitors.] 

"Thank  God,  they're  gone!''  the  survivor  is 
heard  to  say. 

Arrival  of  the  survivor's  women-folk.  He 
sees  them  to  their  rooms  and  comes  down  to  gloat 
over  some  woman.  When  his  wife  returns  to 
the  hall: 

"Hullo,  Helen!"  he  says.  "Are  ye  dahn  ol- 
ready?"  And  repeats  the  bright  question: 
"Hullo,  Helen!     Are  ye  dahn  already  f" 

What  a  people,  the  men  of  Yorkshire!  .   .   . 

Wednesday,  9  March. 

/  begin  a  collodial  sulphur  treatment  .  .  . 
for  that  picturesque  right  leg  of  mine.  Irving's 
left  leg  was  a  poem  (Oscar  Wilde) ;  my  right  leg 
is  a  money-box,  adorned  with  three  patches  the 
size  of  a  shilling,  a  sixpence  and  a  groat,  all  very 
nice  and  silvery.  I  asked  [the  doctor]  whether 
it  was  leprosy  or  dropsy.  He  said  it  was  sor- 
iasis,  scoriasis,  scloriasis:  I  don't  know  which 
and  I  don't  care. 

160 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Thursday,    lo  March. 

The  [other  Yorkshire  visitors]  arc  to  go  on 
Monday,  when  I  can  say: 

"Thank  God,  they're  gone!" 

And  I  pray  that  the  table  next  to  ours  may  not 
he  given  to  people  with  provincial  accents.  Let 
it  be  noted  that  the  friend  of  "McKannar"  is 
manager  of  the — branch  of  the  L.  J.  C.  M. 
at  Leeds,  so  tliat,  when  I  go  to  live  at  Leeds,  I 
may  bank  elsewhere.   .  .  . 

Friday,    1 1    March. 

At  the  club,  I  win  iS6i  points  at  bridge  in  go 
minutes. 

£.  s.  d. 

In  money,  at  2^^  the  lOO,  this  repre- 
sents 4  O 

At  the   Cleveland  it  would  have   rep- 
resented g  12  0 

At    the    Reform    Club    it    would    have 
represented  280 

Sunday,   13   March. 

John  ("Shane" )  Leslie's  book  on  Cardinal 
Manning  seems  to  me  very  good.  Leslie  is  very 
nasty  to  Purcell,  who  no  doubt  deserves  it. 

161 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Monday,   14  March. 

Departure  of  [the  last  Yorkshireman],  leav- 
ing his  women-people  behind  him.  He  asked 
for  it  and  he  shall  have  it: 

"Thank  God  he's  gone!" 

He  used  to  stare  at  me  till  I  devised  the  re- 
tort: closing  my  eyelids  and  yawning  at  him 
like  a  lion. 

I  think  I  must  talk  to  Reggie  about  him  some 
day. 

Tuesday,   15  March. 

.  .  .  The  hotel  is  filling  up  madly  for  Easter. 
There  will  be  more  here  then  than  at  Christmas. 
Help!  .   .  . 

Thursday,   17  March. 

S.  Patrick    D  First  Quarter,  3.49  a.  m. 

Well^  I  went  to  church  to  pray  for  Ireland: 
what  else  was  there  to  be  done? 

Stephen's  return  seems  to  be  unduly  delayed; 
and  I've  forgotten  the  name  of  his  ship. 

Friday,  18  March. 

The  sun  shines  in  the  morning. 
The  rain  falls  in  the  afternoon. 
I  play  a  little  bridge. 

162 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

The  sun  shines  all  day. 

Thank  God,  a  letter  from  Stephen  and  an  end 
to  this  beastly  diary! 


163 


XIV 

Teixeira  continued  to  live  at  Ventnor  until 
the  beginning  of  May,  with  spirits,  health  and 
powers  of  work  all  steadily  improving.  He 
returned  to  London  in  time  to  welcome  Coup- 
erus,  who  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  month 
and  was  entertained  privately  and  publicly 
for  five  or  six  weeks. 

/  don't  know  exactly  when  you  II  he  hack,  he 
writes,  11.3.  21,  hut  I  welcome  you  home  with 
all  my  heart  .   .   .   and  with  an  S.  O.  S. 

The  title  of  [Couperus']  The  Inevitable  ^ 
has  been  forestalled,  in  a  novel  puhlishing  with 
Holden  <y  Harlingham.  And  I  zvant  another 
good  title  in  a  hurry.     Can  you  help  mef 

There  is  always: 

Cornelie. 
Wilkie  Collins  would  have  called  it: 

Could  She  Do  Otherwise? 
George  Egerton  would  have  said: 

1  Ultimately    this    was    published    with    the    title:     The    Law 
Inevitable. 

164. 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

The  Woman  Who  Went  Back. 

(But  that's  giving  the  solution  away  too  soon). 

Is    there    a    possible    title    with    "Doom"    or 
"Fate"  in  it? 

Henry  James: 

How  Cornelie  Ended. 
Stephen  McKenna: 

The  Reluctant  Plover. 
George  Rohey: 

Did  She  Fall  or  Was  She  Pushed? 

The  Bible: 

(unquotable) 
Tex: 

Anything  on  the  Wilkie  Collins  lines  over- 
leaf. 

The  Lure  of  Fate. 
Could  She  Avoid  It? 
It  Had  To  Be. 

And,  as  I  said,  there's  always: 

Cornelie.   .   .   . 

Welcome  home,  my  dear  Stephen,  he  writes, 
19.  3.  21.   .   .   . 

165 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  look  forward,  with  pleasure,  to  receiving  your 
diary  and  soon  you  may  look  backward,  with  dis- 
gust, to  having  received  mine. 

My  health  has  made  very  reasonable  progress 
and  my  wife  is  exceedingly  well.  Frank  Dodd 
visits  us  for  two  days  on  Thursday :  how  we 
shall  be  after  that  .  .  .  well,  how  shall  we  be 
after  that?  .   .  . 

On  27.  3.  21  he  writes: 

Dodd  arrived  on  Thursday :  I  say,  he  arrived. 
He  arrived  by  travelling  from  London  to  South- 
hampton in  a  luggage-van  with  a  first-class  ticket 
(what's  the  penalty  for  that?);  by  running  his 
boat  into  the  mud  10  minutes  from  Cowes;  by 
missing  his  connection;  by  changing  at  Ryde ;  and 
by  repeating  his  offence  "thence"  and  "hither": 
I.  e.  travelling  with  the  same  ticket  in  a  second 
luggage-van.  At  g  p.  m.  he  arrived,  greeting  me 
with  the  words: 

"I've  had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast." 

You  should  have  seen  the  poor  fellow  torn 
between  two  longings,  with  a  plateful  of  soup 
before  him  while  waiting  for  a  Ventnor  cocktail, 
consisting  of  gSfo  Plymouth  gin  and  2%  orange 
bitters. 

We  motored  him  on  Friday  to  Blackgang,  to 
Chale,  to  Carisbrooke,  to  Newport,  to  Brading, 

166 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

to  Bembridge,  to  Sandotvn,  to  Shanklin  and  hack. 
Having  already  familiarized  himself  with  Cowes 
and  Ryde,  he  declared  that  he  had  now  seen 
every  city  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  except  Freshwater. 

I  lay  low  about  Yarmouth,  but  yesterday  I 
walked  him  back  fro?n  Bonchurch,  after  my 
doctor  had  motored  us  "thither." 

We  did  a  lot  of  talking  in  between,  but  he  did 
not  sap  my  vitality.  .  .  .  He  left  after  tea  for 
France,  via  Southhampton  and  Havre;  and  I 
was  able  to  sit  up,  take  nourishment  and  even 
stand  and  iwatch  a  ball-room  full  of  people  dance 
Lent  out  on  what  the  festive  programme  called 
"Easter  Saturday" :  Christians,  you  may  or 
viay  not  be  aware,  call  it  Holy  Saturday.   .   .   . 

And  on  31.  3.  21 : 

.  .  .  I  booked  a  seat  on  a  four-in-hand  this 
morning  to  go  to  certain  point-to-point  races; 
cancelled  it;  received  an  invitation  from  my  young 
doctor  to  take  me  there  in  his  car;  declined  it, 
feeling  too  weak  and  sulphurous.  .  .  .  I  have 
a  leg,  like  Sir  Willoughby  what's-his-name;  but 
this  leg  is  covered  with  patterns  (Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne,  was  it?)  and  to  cure  it  I  am  covered 
and  lined  with  brimstone.  It  is  not  curing;  and 
I  am  just  tempersome,  that's  all.   .   .  . 

In  answer  to  my  question  what  he  would 

167 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

like  for  a  birthday  present,  he  replies,  3.  4.  21 : 

This  is   one  of  the  days  on  which  I  feel  like 
nothing  on  earth.      Yet  I  must  answer  your  three 
letters  to  the  best  of  my  enfeebled  power.   .   .   . 
I  want  a  Catholic  Dictionary 

or 
Drummond's  Life  of  Erasmus 

or 

a  second-hand  copy  of  either 

will  be  quite  acceptable :  the 

second    is    an    old   book    and 

probably   out  of  print. 

five  fumable  cigars  ''from  stock" ;  but  a  present 

I  must  have  because  I  am  working  a  stunt  about 

the  immense  number  of  birthday  gifts  which  I  am 

sure  of  receiving.     The  Cleveland  Club  is  being 

canvassed    with    this    intent    and    the    members 

urged  to  make  canv ass-backed  ducks  and  drakes 

of  their  money:  oh,  how  like  nothing  on  earth  I 

feel  after  being   brought    to    bed   of   this   joke! 

I  am  to  have  a  cake  with  56  candles  in  it  from  my 

doctor's  wife,  which  her  name  is  Phyllis  Twigg; 

so  let  no  one  send  me  an  other.     If  I  ate  more 

than  5(5  candles  at  my  age,  I  should  have  to  go  in 

cossack-cloth  and  ashes  for  the  rest  of  my  life;  oh, 

like  nothing  on  earth,  Stephen,  like  nothing  on 

earth!  .   .  . 

168 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

The  acknowledgement  of  the  birthday 
present  had  to  be  delayed  while  Teixeira 
described  his  effort  to  observe  an  eclipse: 

/  ordered  a  pail  and  some  water  ("and  let  the 
water  be  inside  the  pail" )  to  be  placed  on  the  lawn 
this  morning^  so  that  I  might  observe  the  eclipse 
of  the  sun.  The  eclipse  was  over  before  I  got 
down;  as  the  pail  was  bright  white  that  made  no 
difference.  Things  looked  very  uncanny  from 
my  bedroom  window  and  I  tried  to  tremble  like  a 
Red  Indian:  they  tremble,  as  you  know,  like  Red 
Indianything.   ... 

It  was  written  on  the  morrow  of  his  birth- 
day, lo.  4.  21 : 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  of  the  8th,  for 
your  good  wishes  and  for  a  noble  Catholic  Dic- 
tionary, with  which  I  was  mightily  pleased.  It 
will  be  of  great  value  to  me  if  I  live  (a)  to  edit 
The  Autumn  of  the  Middle  Ages,  by  Huisinga 
and  (b)  to  translate  The  Land  of  Rembrand,  by 
Busken  Huet,  two  monumental  tasks  which  I  have 
been  discussing  with  Dodd.   .   .   . 

You  have  presumably  bought  Queen  Victoria, 
by  the  side  of  which  Eminent  Victorians  is  quite  a 
dull    book.     And  I   read   that,    on   Friday   last, 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

eight  gentleman  were  seen  sitting  in  a  row  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  all  reading  Strachey's  book. 
If,  however  K.  G.  were  closed  to  the  public  on 
Friday,  then  the  story  is  mythical.   .   .   . 

Your  birthday-stunt  worked  wonders.  Mira- 
cles never  cease:  R sent  me  an  Omar  Khay- 

yai7i!  R.  a  round  or  circular  photograph-frame  of 
a  precious  metal  known  as  silver.  N.  F.  25  cig- 
ars of  the  por  Laranaga  flavor.  B.  ^0  of  the 
flavour  kndwn  as  Romeo  y  Juliet  a.  P.  100  cig- 
arettes of  the  snake-charming  flavour,  which,  be- 
ing manufactured  from  the  finest  high-grade  se- 
lected Turkish  leaf  tobacco,  must  be  exchanged 
for  the  cigarettes  of  Ole  Virginny  when  I  am  next 
in  hail  of  one  of  Messrs.  Salmon  cff  Gladstone's 
famous  establishments. 

This  exhausts  your  list.  Over  and  above  these 
gifts,  I  received  from  S.  an  Umps,  i.  e.  a  biscuit- 
ware  naked  doll,  with  wings,  practicable  arms 
and  a  heart  in  the  right,  non-commital  place,  in 
the  middle  of  its  chest.  Also,  a  neat  black  and 
grey  tie.  From  Mrs.  H.  a  tie.  .  .  .  From  my 
wiff  a  tie  and  a  pair  of  mittens,  for  elderly  early- 
morning  wear.  From  the  manageress  of  the  ho- 
tel, a  knitted  canary  waistcoat  with  sapphire  but- 
tons to  cover  the  nudity  of  the  Umps.  From  an 
anonyrnous  admirer,  a  smaller  naked  doll,  made, 
I  venture  to  think,  of  celluloid-georgette.     From 

170 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

a  lady  staying  at  the  hotel,  a  box  of  Salnshiiry's 
chocolates,  which  are  the  most  toothsome  in  the 
world.  From  G.  H.,  aged  80,  and  F.,  his  wife, 
age  y^,  a  box  of  other  chocolates,  and  50  De 
Reske  cigarettes.  From  A.  T.,  aged  6,  bought 
with  her  own  money,  a  bottle  of  ink  and  a  ball  of 
twine.  From  her  mother,  P.  T.,  nee  McKenna 
— nay,  Mackenzie — two  blue-bird  electric-light 
shades. 

The  T's,  who  belong  to  my  local  doctor,  in 
the  proportion  of  one  wife  and  one  daughter,  also 
gave  me  a  birthday  party.  To  meet  me  were  in- 
cited Dr.  C,  Dr.  F.,  and  Captain  Cave-Brown- 
Cave.  It  opened  with  an  ode  or  oratorio  about 
fairies  and  happiness,  intoned  by  Anne  and  Dr. 
C.  to  an  accompaniment  by  Mrs.  T.  Then  Anne 
put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  embraced  me  ten- 
derly and  told  me  not  to  mind  what  Mrs.  Teixeira 
said  about  my  touting  for  presents:  Mrs.  Teix- 
eira didnt  mean  it,  couldn't  mean  it;  and  Anne 
didn't  believe  it,  couldn't  believe  it.  With  the 
tears  streaming  down  the  knees  of  my  cashmere 
trouserings,  I  was  led  in  to  tea  to  see  my  name 
spelt  in  letter-biscuits  and  my  birthday-cake  sur- 
rounded by  ^6  pink,  green,  white  and  red  candles. 
Then  we  played  bridge  and  I  won  eight  shillings. 
And  I  doubt  if  Oueen  Victoria  ever  described  a 
birthday  more  fully. 

171 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

No,  she  would  not  have  forgotten,  as  I  nearly 
forgot,  that  F.  E.  W .  also  sent  me  a  tie.   .   .   . 

In  the  middle  of  the  month,  Teixeira  began 
to  make  preparations,  for  his  return: 

Should  you  happen,  he  writes,  14.  4.  21,  to  buy 
a  steam-yacht,  in  addition  to  a  motor-car,  be- 
fore the  ^th  of  May,  you  might  send  her  for  us: 
we  would  as  soon  travel  that  way,  land  at  the 
Temple  stairs  and  lunch  with  you  while  the  yacht 
takes  our  luggage  up-river  to  Chelsea.   .   .   . 

You  have  evidently  misunderstood  my  motives 
in  deciding  to  buy  a  car,  I  began  to  explain. 

Get  a  neat,  unobstrusive  disk  with  "Hackney 
Carriage"  fitted  to  it,  he  interposed :  you  can 
make  a  tidy  income  out  of  your  car  then,  when 
the  Muse  (should  I  say  the  Garage?)  fails  you. 

.  .  .  If,  he  writes,  19.  4.  21,  you  have  not 
blewed  or  blued  (which  is  it?)  your  last  fiver, 
consider  whether  your  library  is  really  complete 
without  the  Greville  Memoirs.  Strachey's  book 
will  probably  have  set  you  lusting  for  them. 

They  contain  the  original  story  about  "speak- 
ing disrespectfully  of  the  Equator." .   .   . 

/  send  you  the  second  edition  of  Harris'  life 
of  Oscar.      You  have  already  read  the  first  edit- 

172 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Maitos 

ion.  But  you  will  like  to  see  such  things,  if 
any,  in  the  appendix  as  may  be  new  and  cer- 
tainly Shaw's  contribution  to  the  end.   .   .   . 

I  had  the  misfortune  to  offend  Teixeira  by 
quoting  a  passage  from  Sir  James  Frazer's 
Golden  Bough : 

I  save  my  temper,  he  writes,  22.  4.  21,  by 
not  discussing  religion  except  with  Catholics  or 
politics  except  with  liberals.  There's  room  for 
discussion  in  the  nuances,  there' s  too  much  room 
for  it  with  those  who  call  my  black  white.  I 
never  dispute  the  goodness  of  certain  infidels  nor 
the  wickedness  of  many  of  the  faithful.  What  I 
hate  is  the  smug-smiling  affectation  of  superiority 
displayed  by   the  agnostics.   .   .  . 

Huxley  I  have  proved  guilty — at  least  to  my 
own  satisfaction — of  intellectual  dishonesty  and 
financial  turpitude;  of  Frazer  I  know  nothing 
whatever.  I  vaguely  pictured  him  as  one  of  sev- 
eral distinguished  compilers  of  whom  I  knew 
nothing;  that  beastly  quotation  at  the  head  of  one 
of  your  chapters  came  as  a  great  shock  to  me, 
which  grew  into  a  very  cataclysm  when  I  found  it 
follozved  by  another  and  a  longer  one. 

I  won't  call  you  an  Englishman  again.     But  it 

173 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

IS  funny  that  you  cant  write  about  yourself  with- 
out going  into  the  matter  of  what  you  think  or 
do  not  think  about  religion.   .  .  . 

I  forgot  to  tell  you,  he  writes,  24.  4.  21,  that 
I  received  y'day,  from  Jack  Tennant,  from  a 
house  with  an  itnprobable  name,  in  a  Scotch 
county  which  I  had  never  heard  of  (Morayshire) , 
a  salmon — the  whole  bird — weighing  7^  lbs.  and 
measuring  somewhere  about  //^  feet.  I  dis- 
tributed J  lbs.  to  my  doctor  and  j  lbs.  to  the  heir 
presumptive  to  the  Cave-Brown-Cave  baronetcy 
(with  apologies  for  the  radical  source  of  the  gift). 
My  wiff  and  I  ate  5  oz.  of  it  to  our  dinner;  and 
the  remainder  was  consumed  by  the  manageress, 
the  bookkeeper  and  housekeeper  of  the  Royal 
Hotel.   .   .  . 

Ten  days  later  his  preparations  were  com- 
plete. 

Unless  I  ring  you  up  at  11,  on  Friday,  he 
writes,  3.  5.  21,  /  will  be  with  you  at  11,  as  sug- 
gested in  your  letter — the  morning  is  still  my 
best  time — and  lunch   at   the   club. 


174 


XV 

In  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1921  Teixeira 
enjoyed  better  health  than  at  any  time  in  the 
last  seven  years.  He  supported  without  ill- 
effects  the  strain  of  incessant  luncheon  and 
dinner-parties  during  the  visit  of  Couperus 
to  London;  he  moved  from  house  to  house, 
staying  with  friends;  he  completed  his  un- 
finished work  and  laid  ambitious  schemes  for 
the  future. 

/  have  written  to  Couperus,  he  told  me, 
13.  5.  21,  preparing  him  to  be  entertained  by  the 
Titmarsh  Club  and  by  the  Asquiths.   .   .   . 

You  might  tell  me  in  an  early  letter  what  to 
do  in  proposing  [him]  for  temporary  honorary 
membership  of  the  Reform  Club  and  when  to  do 

f  •'  •      •      •      • 

My  dear  Stephen,  he  writes,  16.  5.  21; 
My  dear  Stephen,  he  repeats; 

The  second  allocution  sounds  almost  super- 
fluous; but  I  will  not  waste  a  sheet  of  Ryman's 
priceless  Hertford  Bank.     I  intended  the  ^'M" 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

of  ''My  dear  Stephen"  to  form  the  "M"  of 
"Many  thanks  for  your  letter  of  the  14th." 
However,  you  may  remember  that  the  only  dif- 
ference between  Moses  and  Manchester  is  that 
one  ends  iti  -oses  and  the  other  in  -anchester; 
and   there  you   are.   .   .   . 

I  am  calling  on  the  Netherlands  minister  at 
half-past  eleven  this  morning.  .  .  .  Bisschop  (of 
the  Anglo-Batavian  Society)  rang  me  up  on  Sat- 
urday evening.  .  .  .  There  is  to  be  a  council- 
meeting  at  4.  o'clock  on  Friday  at  the  Internat- 
ional Law  Association  in  King' s  Bench  Walk.  .  .  . 
If  you  are  back  by  Friday  and  likely  to  be  at 
home,  I'll  come  on  to  see  you  from  there.  And 
I'll  write  to  you  to-morrow  about  my  call  on  Van 
Swinderen.   .   .   . 

P.  S.  to  my  former  letter,  he  writes  on  the 
same  day :  Van  Swinderen  was  ?nost  charming. 
He  at  once  offered  to  have  the  Dutch  reading  at 
the  legation.  .  .  .  I  said  that,  if  Van  S.  would 
make  it  an  invitation  matter,  he  would  be  doing 
a  great  honour  to  C.  and  giving  a  very  welcome 
reception  to  the  Dutch  colony  in  Lon- 
don. .   .   . 

He  leapt  at  this;  said  he  would  give  a  dinner 
to  twenty  of  la  creme  de  la  creme;  he  could  man- 
age thirty  at  two  tables;  and  ask  up  to  a  hundred 
to  the  reception.   ... 

176 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

Everything  is  provisional  to  Mrs.  Van  Swin- 
deren's  agreement;  and  I  am  to  lunch  there  on 
Friday  and  hear  more.   .  .   . 

When  Couperus  returned  to  Holland,  my 
correspondence  with  Teixeira  was  suspended. 
We  were  meeting  or  communicating  by  tele- 
phone almost  daily;  and  it  was  only  when  we 
left  London  to  stay  with  friends  that  the 
letters  were  resumed. 

Weather  hot  and  stuffy,  he  writes,  i.  8.  21, 
from  Sutton  Courtney.  Laivns  running  dozvn  to 
a  perfectly  full  river  and  absolutely  dry:  and  I 
ivith  not  much  to  tell  you.  .   .   . 

/  am  sleeping  beautifully  and  eating  lightly; 
and  I  feel  too  indolent  for  words. 

Good-bye  and  bless  you! 

My  wife,  he  writes,  5.  8.  21,  pictures  me  sur- 
rounded by  people  who,  if  she  broke  my  heart 
by  dying,  would  thrust  women  of  forty  on  me, 
"dear,  dearest  Mr.  Tex,"  to  look  after  me.  Is 
it  not  a  beautifully  witty  tag  to  a  letter?  I  think 
so.  .   .  . 

To  my  reproach  that  he  had  left  London 
without  saying  good-bye  to  me,  he  replies, 
16.  8.  21  with  complete  justification: 

177 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

As  our  logical  neighbours  across  the  channel  say: 
"Zut!  .   .   .  Zut!  .  .  .  Et   encore  zutf  .   .   ." 
Had  you  profited  as  you  ought  by  the  careful 
bringing  up  which  your  kind  parents  gave  you, 
you  ^ivould  have  known  that  it  is  for  those  who 
go  away  to  say  good-bye,  for  those  who  arrive  to 
say  good-day.      You  left  London   before  I  did. 
I  say  no  more  in  reply  to  your  reproaches.   .   .  . 
//  ever  you  leave  London,  however,  at  about 
the  same  time  as  I,  remember,  will  you  not,  the 
etiquette     (French)     and     the     punctilio     (Ital- 
ian)? .   .  . 

.  .  .  If  you  think  that  I  have  much  to  tell  you. 
he  adds,  20.  8.  21,  you  are  mistaken.  Y'day  I 
went  for  a  stroll,  turned  up  a  footpath  which  I 
imagined  would  bring  me  back  here,  found  that 
it  didn't,  after  I  had  gone  much  too  far  to  turn 
back,  and  plodded  on  and  on — my  apprehensive 
mind  full  of  a  picture  of  myself  being  devoured 
by  onsticelli  and  stercoraceous  geodurpes  amid  a 
fine  setting  of  ferns  and  bracken — until  I  reached 
Abingdon.  It  might  have  been  Oxford,  so  ex- 
hausted was  I. 

A  boy  was  bribed  to  fetch  me  a  car  and  I  re- 
turned just  before  the  search-party  set  out  for  me. 
I  roam  no  more.  There  is  a  lawn  here:  let  me 
walk  up  and  down  it.  .   .   . 

178 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  do  not  despair  about  Ireland  because  I  never 
despair  about  anything. 
And  I  am  ever  yours, 

Tex. 

Your  letter  of  the  23rd,  he  writes,  25.  8.  21, 
found  me  still  here.  (The  Wharf,  Sutton  Court- 
ney): I  go  to-morrow  to  the  Norton  Priory  till 
Monday  .  .  .  and  longer  if  they  will  have  me 
longer.  Then  back  home;  and  to  Sutro's  for  a 
brief  week-end  on  Saturday. 

Yes,  I  know  Lancaster,  its  castle,  where  I  have, 
and  its  lunatic  asylum,  where  I  have  never, 
stayed.   .  .   . 

It  were  useless  for  me  to  pretend  that  I  have 
not  mislayed  your  list  of  addresses.  I  may  find 
it  in  some  other  suit;  but  you  might  notify  me  of 
your  next  movement  whenever  you  write.  But  do 
not  translate  m.  p.  h.  as  miles  per  hour.  Master 
of  phoxhounds,  if  you  like,  or  miles  per  horam; 
but  we  Englih  say  an  hour  and  not  per  hour.  .  .  . 

M.  sent  an  enormous  120  h.  p.  (hocus  pocus) 
land-yacht  to  meet  me  at  Portsmouth,  he  writes 
from  Norton  Priory,  27.  8.  21,  relieving  me  of 
the  worst  part  of  the  journey.  .  .  .  N.  arrived 
from  town  before  dinner,  bringing  with  him 
a  .  .  .  stockbroker.  .  .  .  They  go  up  on  Mon- 
day morning,  but  I  stay  on  till  Wednesday,  like 

179 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

a  gay  limpet  but  a  perfectly  moral:  M's  brother 
comes  down  on  Monday. 

For  the  rest,  I  have  the  same  room,  but  have 
not  yet  cracked  my  skull  against  the  canopy  of 
the  same  fourposter;  and  I  am  perfectly 
happy.  .   .  . 

Your  original  "waybill  is  found,  he  adds,  30.  8. 
21.;  but  I  have  the  receipt  of  no  letter  from  you 
to  acknowledge.  N.  .  .  .  went  up  after  break- 
fast y  day  and  brother  R.  M.  came  down  before 
dinner.  He  is  a  pleasant  New  Zealander  and 
took  a  lot  out  of  me  at  bridge. 

Life  here  pursues  its  quiet  course.  I  accom- 
panied M.  and  W .  to  the  sea's  edge  yesterday 
hut  found  the  effort  of  ploughing  through  the 
shingle  tolerably  exhausting  and  shall  not  repeat 
it  to-day.  Indeed,  the  zvhole  family.  Miss  T.  in- 
cluded, are  bathing  now  and  I  am  writing  twaddle 
to  you  under  the  pear-tree. 

And,  as  I  live,  I  think  I'll  zvrite  no  more.  I 
have  no  more  to  say;  and  the  papers  have  just 
come.  I  leave  here  after  lunch  (eon)  to-morrow, 
spend  an  hour  or  two  in  Chichester  cathedral  and 
arrive  home  in  time  for  my  bread  and  milk.   .   .   . 

On  his  return  to  Chelsea  and  a  typewriter, 
he  says,  i.  9.  21  : 

You  will  be  pleased  to  receive  a  letter  from  me 
in  legible  type,  instead  of  in  that  hand  which  is 

180 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

becoming  almost  as  crabbed  as  yours.  And  I 
continue  to  address  you  at  Bamborouyh  Castle, 
though  that  stronghold  figures  as  something  -very 
near  Zambuk  Castle  in  your  letter  of  30  August. 

N.  filled  me  ivith  fears  of  internecine  feuds 
within  your  fortress,  of  bloody  strife  for  the  one 
shady  nook  of  the  orchard  and  so  on.  You  say 
nothing  of  these  things;  and  I  assume  that  there 
has  been  no  slaughter  in  your  time.  There  was 
a  horrid  game  when  I  became  a  British  kid  in  the 
early  seventies:  I  am  king  of  the  castle!  Get 
out,  you  dirty  rascal!  I  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  you  and  N.  playing  this  game  against  ruthless 
border  clansmen.     All' s  well  that  ends  well.  .  .  . 

I  lost  twenty  goodish  guineas  at  three-handed 
bridge  after  Brother  Roy  arrived.  He  wanted 
to  can  everything  on  the  estate:  the  apples,  the 
pears,  the  fleas  on  the  dogs'  backs,  the  flyaway 
ducks.  He  wanted  to  introduce  New  Zealand 
mutton-birds  into  this  country.   .   .   . 

I  had  a  tooth  out  yesterday,  he  writes,  3.  9. 
21, — until  then  I  had  thirteen  of  my  own  left, 
an  unlucky  number — and  was  not  at  my  best.  .  .  . 
The  tooth  was  extracted  at  a  high  cost,  in  the 
presence  of  a  dentist,  an  anaesthetist  and  my 
body-physician  but  without  unpleasant  conse- 
quences. And  this  afternoon  I  go  to  the  Sutros 
for  a  brief  week-end. 

181 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  have  no  news,  except  that  I  have  bought 
some  most  attractive  socks,  or  half-hose.  .   .   . 

.  .  .  I  have  no  news,  he  complains,  12.  9.  21. 
/  write  to  you  simply  out  of  friendship  and 
duty.  I  spent  five  hours  at  the  Zoo  y'day.  .  .  . 
We  lunched  there;  so  did  most  of  the  beasts, 
heavily.  You  should  have  seen  S.  staggering 
under  the  weight  of  about  nine  pounds  of  the 
most  expensive  oranges,  bananas,  apples  and 
onions,  not  to  mention  sugar,  monkey-nuts,  and 
two  raw  eggs.  Say  what  you  will,  it  is  lajfable  to 
feed  a  small  monkey  with  slices  of  apple  till  he 
has  both  pouches  full,  all  four  hands  and  his 
mouth.  When  you  hand  him  the  eighth  slice, 
you  wait  in  breathless  expectation.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  tooth  extracted  last  week,  reducing 
the  number  of  my  real  teeth  to  twelve.  To-day 
the  number  of  my  pseudo-teeth  is  to  be  increased 
io  eighteen  (quite  correct:  they  swindle  you  out 
of  a  couple)  and  I  propose  to  lunch  at  the  Re- 
form Club  with  many  gaps  in  my  mouth. 

I  have  arranged  terms  for  two  luvverly  rooms 
at  the  Tregenna  Castle  Hotel,  St.  Ives,  from 
I  November  to  i  April.  Rooms  face  south,  away 
from  the  beastly  ocean;  breakfast  in  the  bed- 
room; baths  a  volonte.  We  hope  to  be  well  and 
happy  there.  I  must  see  much  of  you  before 
you  go  to  Sweden.  .  .  . 

182 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

.  .  .  I  rejoice  to  hear  that  you  are  going  to 
Copenhagen.  It  is  a  charming  coquette  of  a 
little  city,  with  which  you  will  fall  head  over  ears 
in  love. 

Not  to  take  a  second  risk,  I  send  this  to  Cross- 
wood,  he  writes  13.  9.  21,  and  I  beg  you  to  lay 
me  at  the  feet  of  your  gracious  chatelaine ;  and, 
if  E.  is  there,  you  can  give  her  the  love  of  her 
Uncle  Tex. 

At  the  Reform  Club  .  .  .  I  played  a  little 
bridge  .  .  .  and  won  2g/ — ;  then,  finding  my  rate 
of  progress  rather  slow,  I  veered  of  to  Cleveland 
Club  and  won  £7.  12.  0  more.  This  satisfied  me; 
and  I  came  home,  ate  two  little  fillets  of  sole,  some 
apple-sauce  and  custard  and  (damn  the  expense) 
a  haporth  of  cheese  and  so  to  bed. 

To  complete  my  Diary  of  a  Nobody,  /  am  glad 
that  you  have  changed  your  name  from  Cowing 
to  Cumming  and  I  am 

ever  yours, 
Tex. 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  of  y*day,  he 
writes,  14.  9.  21,  bearing  traces  of  the  pear  skin 
and  plumstones  therein  mentioned,  not  to  speak 
of  a  spot  of  butter  and  a  small  burn  from  your 
after-brekker  cigarette. 

I  have  crossed  Shap  in  a  swift  and  powerful 

183 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

ra'ilivay-train,  'with  a  whiskered  and  spectacled 
judge  of  the  high  court,  in  the  opposite  seat.  I 
remember  old  Day's  teaching  me  how  to  observe 
whether  one  zvere  going  up  hill  or  down  by  watch- 
ing the  roadside  rills: 

"Water  invariably  flozvs  dozcnziards,"  said  he, 
qravely.   .   .  . 

Ecclefechan  I  don  t  know  and  don  t  want  to; 
Carlisle,  I  do;  Gretna  Green  I  do:  I  never 
want  to  set  eyes  on  either  again.  I  have  a  des- 
olating memory  of  brown  fields  between  Carlisle 
and  Gretna  Green.  By  now  you  have,  I  expect, 
seen  as  much  of  England  as  you  wish  to  see  in 
the  course  of  your  natural  life.  .  .  . 

To-day,  seized  with  a  sudden  lech  for  art  and 
beauty,  my  wif  and  I  are  going  to  Hammers^nith 
to  hear  The  Beggar's  Opera.  .  .  . 

/  have  again  lost  your  waybill,  he  writes, 
I  6.  9.  21,  and  cannot  tell  if  this  will  still  find  you 
at  Glow-worm  Castle. 

The  Beggar's  Opera  was  a  great  affair. 

Little  has  happened  to  me  since. 

But  to-day  Mrs.  Asquith  and  her  daughter 
are  coming  to  play  different  forms  of  the  game 
of  auction  bridge  at  the  Cleveland  Club. 

And  to-morrow  .  .  .  ah,  to-7norrow!  To- 
morrow I  am  going  to  stay  for  the  week-end 
with  a  hostess,  at  or  near  Marlow,  whose  name 

184 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  do  not  even  knozv.  .  .  .  I  am  promised  a  per- 
fectly good  end;  hut  so  were  any  babies  of  old 
ivho  ended  in  being  eaten  by  the  ogress. 

We  are  never  too  old  for  adventures;  but  pray 
that  I  come  safely  out  of  this  one. 

On  30.  9.  21  he  writes: 

Fery  many  thanks  for  The  Secret  Victory,  with 
the  delightful  dedication  and  preface.  I  am  not 
at  all  sure  that  I  shall  not  read  the  book  again. 

I  have  just  returned  from  an  interview  with  the 
local  income-tax  brigand  which  filled  me  with  some 
apprehensions.  .  .  .  After  a  .  .  .  jest  or  tzvo,  I 
left  the  brigand's  cave  unscathed.  .  .  . 

I  go  to  the  Wharf  to-morrow  for  a  week  and 
may  stay  on  a  day  or  two  longer ^  if  pressed:  I  al- 
zvays  do,  you  know.  .  .  . 

I  had  been  invited  to  deliver  some  lectures 
in  Sweden  and  Denmark.  Teixeira  was  good 
enough  to  read  the  manuscript  of  these,  as  of 
almost  everything  I  wrote.  With  his  letter 
of  3.  10.  21  he  returned  the  first: 

Here  is  your  lecture  .  .  .  I  really  cannot  suggest 
any  cuts.  My  one  and  only  lecture  read  2}i 
minutes:  this  is  no  reason  why  yours  should  not 

185 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

read  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  Does  any  one  want 
to  go  and  sit  in  a  hall,  with  free  light  and  warmth 
thrown  in  for  less  than  an  hour  and  a  quarter? 
No;  the  Swedes  will  admire  your  fluency  and  he 
pleased  with  you. 

On  my  return  to  England,  he  asks, 
14.  1 1.  21  : 

When  do  we  meet?  We  have  decided  to  leave 
on  the  ^oth.  I  can  lunch  with  you  to-morrow, 
if  you  like,  and  bring  you  your  two  Ezvald  books. 

Teixeira's  departure  to  Cornwall,  already 
delayed  by  his  wife's  illness,  had  now  to  be 
postponed  again,  as  he  was  prostrated  with 
ptomaine  poisoning. 

Both  invalids  were  sufficiently  recovered 
to  face  the  journey  on  2  December;  and,  next 
day,  Teixeira  sent  me  news  of  his  safe  arrival: 

Tregenna  Castle  Hotel, 

St.  Ives,  Cornwall, 
J  December,  ig2i. 
My  dear  Stephen: 

Thanks  for  your  letter  that  reached  me  just 
before  I  left  town.  This  is  my  address:  what 
else  would  it  be?  And  the  enclosed  [an  invita- 
tion to  lecture]  is  sent  to  show  you  that  you  are 

186 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

not  the  only  Beppo  on  the  peach  (damn  your 
British  metaphors! ) :  you  might  not  believe  it 
otherzvise.  But  you  may  picture  the  courteous 
terms  in  which  I  declined. 

There  is  nothing  for  nervous  dyspepsia  or  gas- 
tric horribobblums  like  seven  goodish  hours  in 
a  swift  and  powerful  railway-express.  I  have 
been  free  from  pain  or  sickness  for  the  first  night 
since  Wednesday  week.  But  I  slept  little. 
From  I  a.  m.  onwards  I  spent  a  sleepless,  pain- 
less night. 

The  hotel  is  comfortable  and  commodious  in 
an  old-fashioned  country-house  way;  no  central 
heating,  but  big  fires;  a  certain  amount  of  intrigue 
with  Lizzie  the  cha7nbermaid  to  secure  a  really 
hot  bath:  you  know  the  sort  of  thing;  immense 
grounds,  a  very  park  of  lOO  acres,  which  I  shall 
never  leave,  because,  if  I  did,  I  should  never  get 
back:  we  stand  too  high. 

Bless  you. 

Ever  yours, 
Tex. 

It  was  the  last  letter  that  I  ever  received 
from  him;  and  on  Monday,  December  the 
fifth,  as  I  was  in  the  middle  of  answering  it, 
a  telegram  informed  me  that  he  had  died  that 
morning.     As  he  was  getting  up,  he  collapsed 

187 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

in  his  wife's  arms  and  slipped,  unconscious, 
on  the  floor.  Death  was  instantaneous  and, 
it  may  be  presumed  and  hoped,  painless. 
He  was  buried  in  the  Holy  Roman  Catholic 
Cemetery  at  St.  Ives;  and  a  requiem  mass  for 
the  repose  of  his  soul  was  said  at  the  Brompton 
Oratory. 

Even  those  with  best  cause  to  suspect  how 
nerveless  was  his  grasp  on  life  could  not 
readily  believe  that  one  who  loved  life  so 
well  was  to  enjoy  no  more  of  it.  "He  was 
spared  old  age,"  said  one  friend;  but  to 
another  Tex  had  lately  confessed  that  he 
would  like  to  live  for  ever. 

Before  he  left  London,  we  said  good-bye 
for  five  months :  he  was  to  winter  in  Cornwall, 
I  in  the  West  Indies.  In  seeing  again  the 
exquisite  handwriting  of  these  many  hundreds 
of  letters  that  commemorate  our  friendship 
for  the  last  six  years  of  his  life,  I  at  least 
cannot  feel  that  his  voice  has  grown  silent 
or  that  his  laughter  is  at  an  end.  The  big, 
solemn  figure  is  vividly  present;  the  favourite 
phrases  and  the  familiar  gestures  are  stamped 
for  ever  on  the  memory  of  any  one  that  loved 
him. 

i88 


Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 

I  am  writing  four  thousand  miles  away 
from  St.  Ives:  and  it  may  be  possible  to  fancy 
that  he  has  been  ordered  to  remain  there 
longer  than  we  expected.  This  time  there 
may  be  no  diary;  perhaps  the  only  letters  will 
be  those  already  written;  he  may  seem  not  to 
hear  all  that  he  once  loved  hearing;  but, 
wherever  he  has  gone,  his  personality  remains 
behind. 

It  was  an  old-standing  bond  that  the  sur- 
vivor should  write  of  the  other.  I  have  tried 
to  make  Teixeira  paint  his  own  portrait.  If 
his  letters  have  failed  to  reveal  him,  what  can 
I  add ?  His  literary  position  is  unchallenged ; 
those  who  knew  him  how  slightly  soever 
knew  his  humour  and  wit,  his  whimsical 
charm,  his  understanding  and  toleration. 
Those  who  knew  him  best  had  strongest 
reason  for  loving  him  most  deeply.  Those 
who  knew  him  not  missed  knowing  a  ripe 
scholar,  a  fine  and  tender  spirit,  a  great  and 
gallant  gentleman,  a  matchless  companion 
and  the  truest  friend  on  earth. 

BERBICE, 
BRITISH  GUIANA 
15  February,  1922. 
189 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9-15m-7,'35 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 


PR 
6039 


McKenna  - 


T23LI1      Tex. 


IICSOIITHIffNHf  MONAI  I  IHHAHYIACII  ITY 


AA    000  381  440    7 


"PR    ■ 


